Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies (15 page)

“Look—this one’s liquid foundation, and this one is powder foundation. I bought some lipstick, and here’s some different eye shadow combinations.” The pile grew larger.

“Wow, Mom. Thanks. Um, you sure did buy a lot of stuff.” Mom barely wore any makeup herself, just lipstick and some eye shadow when she and my dad went out to dinner. “Do
you
know how to use all this?”

“Well, I thought we could experiment. It’ll be fun. And won’t Christian be surprised when he sees you.”

Shocked is more like it,
I thought.

“I don’t know, Mom. I mean, we can try it, but all of that really isn’t me, you know?” Hoping that I could convince her to scale back, I tried one more approach. “Besides, Christian said I just needed ‘enhancement.’”

“You’ll like it, honey, you’ll see. You didn’t see him working on you. He used more than you think. Let’s go into the bathroom. The light’s better there.”

There was no way to resist. I followed her into the bathroom and plunked down on the toilet seat lid. She lined up supplies on the counter, smoothed hair away from my face, and went to work.

A cold liquid slimed my cheeks. I squirmed. “I don’t think he used anything cold, Mom,” I said. She wiped it with a sponge.

“I’m evening your complexion. The woman at the counter said you need to start with an even complexion before you do anything else.” She spread the cold stuff all over my face.

It
does
wash off,
I reminded myself, and gave up making suggestions. As I opened, closed, lifted, and lowered, I imagined how glamorous I’d be when Mom was done. Maybe she was right. Maybe Christian rushed, and I needed more than he gave me. After all, I only had a few minutes with him. I imagined walking into Saturday’s competition as Model Celeste already. He would be so proud. Erika would declare that since I was too thin and beautiful to be a HuskyPeach, they were moving me to the SkinnyBanana contest down the hall.
Then
they’d see “bubbly and engaging” Celeste!

Mom’s humming brought me back to reality. “Almost done,” she said, lunging at my eyelashes with a mascara wand. “Hmmm. Not quite the same look Christian gave you, though.” She made one last swipe with the mascara and stepped back, studying the results. I sat straighter and presented my best Serious Model Face. The longer she examined me, the darker her eyes became. It was as though a little rain cloud blew across her face.

“Can I see?” I asked, hoping that her expression was due to the fact that her Little Girl looked All Grown-Up. She nodded.

I stood and turned to the mirror. Two weeks earlier, when Christian introduced me to the reflection of Model Celeste, I couldn’t believe how great I looked. This time, I just couldn’t believe
how
I looked.

Put it this way: If Christian’s makeup job was like a soft candle flame, Mom’s was harsh, tacky neon. He cast Spells of Beauty. Mom created a Clown Face Collage. The foundation was too light, turning my face a different color than my neck.

My cheeks were defined by a heavy pink diagonal stripe. My eyelashes looked good—she knew how to hold a mascara wand, at least—but the eye shadow was straight out of the Book of Black Eyes. She watched me studying their dark-ringed smudges.

“I was going for the smoky look,” she said.

“Of course,” I replied. The lipstick was too bright and a streak of it darted across my front teeth. Every smudge and smear accentuated my round cheeks, chubby chin, and fat neck.

“Let me get the remover.” She sighed. “I never was any good at this.”

“Maybe it’s harder to do when it’s not on yourself,” I offered, fighting to keep my voice light. I dropped my eyes from the mirror. She returned with the remover and a handful of cotton balls and undid her spell. Real Celeste emerged from under the paint.

Mom tidied the bottles and tubes, dropping each into a bag as she did so. “Let’s leave Christian to his own magic next Saturday,” she said. “I’ll put this in your room so you can try it on your own. Maybe you’ll have better luck than me.”

I eyed the bag. “Doubt it.”
I’m a one-magician girl,
I thought. Once in my room, however, I stashed the bag with my Modeling Challenge materials.
Maybe Christian can teach me how to use it.

Or at least tell you what to get rid of,
Red Bathing Suit Woman finished.

TRUE TO THEIR word—which was more than I could say for Sandra, who completely stopped calling and didn’t seem interested in being Best Friends in school
or
out—Katy and Millie met me to walk around the AlHo track each afternoon over the weekend. Once I forced myself to get over my memories of the Fitness Challenge and Yurk Fest (and the fact that I still had Coach Anapoli’s gift card in my backpack), and Katy and Millie promised there would be no running, everything went great. For two days, we met, walked four laps, and went home. It tired me out, and I huffed and puffed my way through the last lap, but I kept reminding myself how many calories I was burning and pictured the shrinking Negative Twenty. Mom and Dad, who thought I was working with Katy and Millie on a school project, were thrilled that I was getting together with other kids since I hadn’t seen much of Sandra lately. Thankfully, Aunt Doreen’s multiple wedding duties kept Mom busy and prevented her from prodding about Sandra—or my “healthy choices”—too much. Mom was suspicious, though. I was grateful to escape her Questioning Eyebrows.

The third time, though, everything was different. I met Millie at the edge of the track after last period. We sat and waited for Katy to return from the high school. Her mom’s car turned in to the parking lot.

“Ready to go?” Katy said, after exiting and walking over to us. Millie bent to tie her shoe. I nodded.

When Millie finished, we started our first lap.

“So, Millie, did you see Mike Arroyo looking at you in social studies today?” Katy began. I envied Millie’s toffee skin. She didn’t blush.

“Nooo. Was he? You’d better be telling the truth,” she said. She stopped walking and fiddled with the string on her hoodie.

Must be nice to like someone without worrying about what they think of your look,
I thought.

“C’mon,” Katy said. “We need to keep going.” She rolled her eyes at me, then tugged on Millie’s arm to get her moving again.

“Tell me if it’s true,” Millie demanded, picking up speed. I huffed but kept up.

“Of course it is. Why would I lie? His brother is in chem with me in the afternoon. He’s so good at balancing equations,” she said. Did I see a dreamy smile flit across her lips? Before I could be sure, she continued, “Want me to ask him if Mike likes you?”

“No! Well, maybe . . . I don’t know. Celeste, what do you think?” She turned to me for help.

It surprised me when Katy and Millie made room for me in their friendship. For so long, I had been part of a twosome—just me and Sandra—that I never thought three friends could work. It just didn’t occur to me that they would need my opinion or advice on anything.

I grinned. “I don’t know. What if his brother says something to him and then Mike gets nervous about it and doesn’t want to talk to you? Maybe Katy should wait a week, and you try and talk to him in social studies or science a couple of times.”

Millie nodded, considering my answer. We finished lap one.
This is so much better than gym,
I thought.

And so much better than listening to a certain Jolly Rancher- crunching girl’s obsession with Robbie Flan,
Red Bathing Suit Woman responded.

During lap two, we considered all the possible ways Millie could talk to Mike without making him suspicious: asking for homework, dropping something and asking him to pick it up, working in a group with him during class . . . there were endless options.

“Don’t you have a dog?” I asked, remembering something Millie had said at lunch. “Mike draws dogs sometimes. I’ve seen his sketchbook. Maybe that’s a way to start talking.”

Katy and Millie shared a glance.

“Couscous is an interesting subject,” Katy said, smirking. “Don’t you think Mike’d want to draw him?”

Millie frowned. “I don’t think that’s the right conversation starter,” she snapped. I was confused.

“What am I missing?” I fought to keep the Third-Wheel Whine out of my voice.

“It’s a long story,” Millie said. Her face smoothed back to its regular sunny smile.

“But a good one,” Katy added, and giggled.

Millie scowled at Katy. “It happened last year,” she began. We were just about to start lap three.

“Hold that thought—I have to go to the bathroom,” I said.

“Want us to come with you?” Katy asked. I shook my head.

“I’ll be right back. You can tell Katy all about our Secret Plot to Destroy Lively while I’m gone,” I joked to Millie.

I stepped off the track and crossed the parking lot back to AlHo. With everyone gone, my footsteps echoed in the main hall. The first two girls’ bathrooms I tried were locked, and I started to get desperate. I’d finished a bottle of water during my last class.

The H-wing bathroom—of the famous “best friends, outside of school” conversation—was unlocked.

As I finished in the last stall, the door squeaked open. Muffled crying filled the room. I sat back on the toilet, staring at my hands. It was embarrassing to listen in on someone else’s problem.
I’ll just slip out once whoever it is goes in a stall.

A backpack zipper scratched, and after rummaging through papers and books the crier found what she was looking for. Feeling brave, I peeked through the crack in the door to see who it was, but the person was just out of sight in the mirror. A cell phone beeped, and then Lively Carson’s voice, snot-filled but clear, floated over the top of the stall. My heart froze as solid as a glacier.
What was she still doing at school?

“M-Mom?” Lively said. “It’s me. . . . No, no, I’m not hurt, but it’s . . . it’s terrible!” Lively started to sob, then ducked into a stall up the row. “You need to come get me!”

A team of sled dogs couldn’t have pulled me from my stall.
What’s so terrible about Lively Carson’s life? Did she lose a barrette?
Eavesdropping embarrassment forgotten, I strained my ears and tried to quiet my breathing to hear every word.

“It
leaked,
Mom! It’s leaking all over my shirt!”

What is she talking about?

“If anyone sees, they’ll muh-muh-make fun of me!” She blew her nose in a great snotty burst. I cringed.

“I tripped running for the bus and landed on a cuh-cuh-corner of my history book and it popped!” Lively was obviously having a hard time keeping in control. “And now I’m lopsided!” She wailed that last sentence.

Understanding washed over me. I almost choked because I forgot to breathe. Lively’s perfect, perky, round figure was fake! Whatever she used to stuff her bra had sprung a leak.

Well
that
certainly explains how they magically appeared after summer vacation this year,
Red Bathing Suit Woman sniffed.

“I told you not to put the water bras in the washing machine or dryer! You nuh-nuh-need to pick me up.” A pause. “I don’t care about the soccer game. Everyone will see!” She blew her nose again. “I hate soccer anyway.”

She hates soccer . . . ?
I thought.
Then what . . . ?
But Lively’s conversation distracted me from going any further with that question.

“Put toilet paper in? Is that all you can think of? I can’t do that! And my shirt is all wet.” Another, longer pause. “Okay, fine. Four thirty. I have my sweater.”

The conversation was ending. I had to get out of the bathroom before Katy and Millie sent a search party. Making only the tiniest movements, I crept from the stall. The door squealed and I stopped, holding my breath.

“Who’s that?” Lively called, sniffing and trying to sound normal. “I heard you.”

Please, please be too worried about your soggy boob to check.
I forced my legs to work. Lively blew her nose a third time. I became a statue, counted to five, then pushed through the door to the hallway, heart pounding and sweating like it was lap three on Yurk Day.

 

Katy and Millie were sitting at the edge of the track when I arrived. Before they could even ask a question, the words poured from me.

“Oh my gosh, you wouldn’t believe it . . . they’re
fake
! The whole time, it’s been a water bra and it
leaked
and now we
know
and I can’t believe it . . .” They let me prattle like a lunatic for a minute or so, just watching me stand and sweat and talk.

“Um, Celeste?” Katy started, using a kind voice. She had twirled a blade of grass around her finger, the tip of which was now purple. She unwrapped the strand.

I nodded. “I mean, she was on the phone with her mom and she’s all wet—”

“Celeste,” Katy said again, firmer. “Stop and breathe.”

I inhaled, then opened my mouth. “But you need to
know
!”

“Again,” Katy said.

Inhale, exhale.

“Now talk,” said Millie. “But tell us who—and what—you’re talking about. It sounds awful.”

“Lively!” I blurted. “She doesn’t have—well,
anything
! She has a water bra!” I told them the whole story. By the time I finished, we were laughing hysterically.

“Oh boy,” Katy said, wiping tears from her cheeks, “this is the best workout we’ve had all week. My stomach is going to be killing me tomorrow.”

“You’re luh-luh-
leaking
!” Millie squealed, pointing at Katy’s tears. That set us off again.

Between gasping for air and wiping my own eyes, I thought,
Maybe we don’t need Katy’s science brain to develop a Secret Plot to Destroy Lively after all. Maybe she can do it on her own.