Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies (16 page)

AS THOUGH SHE knew that something was up, Lively left the three of us alone for a few days. She wasn’t nice, of course, but she didn’t go out of her way to be mean. Mostly, she ignored us. It didn’t matter, though. Every time I saw her I stifled a giggle. Once, Millie even made the water fountain squirt as she walked by. I leaned against the lockers, I was laughing so hard. Then it was time for gym class.

The Gift Card of Humiliation still taunted me from the bottom of my backpack. It had been nearly four weeks since Yurk Fest, and I hadn’t been able to bring myself to give it to Coach Anapoli. The longer I waited, the worse it was. Her brown speckled sneakers were visible reminders of my explosive failure.
Why hadn’t she bought herself a new pair?

Coach grouped us into teams for a set of soccer games. I was on a team with Lively and Katy. Millie played against us, and Coach assigned Sandra to a different squad, which was fine by me. Her careful avoidance was getting old. The hurt was still there, but now it was a dull throb that flared up every so often—like when we were in places where we used to hang out, such as gym class.

Once we walked to the field and Coach led us through warm-ups, we split into groups to play.

“Great,” Lively said once Coach was far enough away. “I got stuck with the bovine brigade.” She rolled her eyes, mooed, and whinnied.

The familiar heat of shame crept over me as the other girls on the team laughed. The Negative Twenty plopped onto my shoulders. Next to me, Katy’s face was still as stone.

“Jerk,” she muttered. “And besides, genius, horses aren’t bovines. They’re equines.”

We took our positions and started the game. I played goalie, since it didn’t require me to run that much. Joanie Purcell, on Millie’s team, slipped past Lively—who was busy checking her nail polish—and Heather Wilson’s defense and slammed the ball past me, into the upper right corner of the net. I barely had time to react, let alone stop it.

When I bent to pick up the ball and toss it to the girls, Lively started in on me.

“You can’t do anything right, you cow!” she said, furious. “You should’ve blocked it. You had time to get it.” Speechless, I stood in the goal holding the ball.

“Knock it off,” Katy said, jogging over from midfield. “If you had been playing defense Joanie couldn’t have made that shot.” Curious about the delay, Millie’s team stopped celebrating and wandered to our side of the field. Lively had an audience.

“It’s the goalie’s job to block the shot. Cows shouldn’t be allowed to play,” Lively finished, hands on her hips.

Even as the heat of anger built up in me, I squeezed the ball to my chest to protect myself from her words
. Lively always gets away with this,
I thought.
Nothing makes her stop.

Then I remembered: There
was
something that could get her to shut up forever . . . if I had the courage to do anything about it. Lively finished her tirade and the group broke up, meandering to their positions to resume the game.
Now or never.
I took a deep breath and squeezed the sides of the ball, elbows cocked.

“Hey, Leaky,” I called. She spun in my direction. I faltered, but only for a second.
Be brave.

“Not everyone is as perfect as you
think
you are. So back off.” I heaved the ball as hard as I could at her chest.
Take that!
It flew straight and even, and I thought Lively was too surprised to catch it. At the last moment she did, though, and the loud slap that the ball made on her hands was the only sound on the field. She glared at me and I stared right back.

Nice shot!
cheered Red Bathing Suit Woman. I hadn’t wanted to hurt her, just scare her a little—or maybe cause the S.S.
Fakeboobs
to spring a leak.

“Good catch, Lively,” Carlee Morgenstern said. Lively’s Expression of Evil made Carlee step back.

“Cows don’t throw hard,” she said. But everyone had heard that slap.

I’m not afraid of you anymore,
I thought. And the amazing thing was, it was true. Even more amazing? I think Lively knew it. Instead of making any more snarky comments, she turned, tucked the ball under her arm, and carried it out for the kickoff.

I let in two more goals, but Lively never said a word. And even though we lost 3-2, I went into the locker room feeling like a winner.

SATURDAY ARRIVED TOO quickly. It was time for the next round of the Modeling Challenge: a practice session for the fashion show. Since Dad and Ben were at a Little League game and couldn’t distract her, Mom followed me around the house while I got ready, closer than my shadow. Although not as anxious as I was two weeks before, I still had no desire to rush to the city and figure out how to purposely lose this round. Mom, though, was raring to go and full of speculation.

“What do you think you’ll be wearing?” she asked as I dug through the pile of clean laundry on my bed, looking for a hoodie and another pair of track pants. The ones I’d put on earlier were a little loose, and I needed to see if it was my imagination. I shook my head.

“Dunno.”

“I wonder if we’ll be in the same group as last time,” she said. “Or if they’ll even have groups this week.”

I wonder how long it will take me to go crazy from your questions,
I thought, but I didn’t say anything.

On the ride up, Mom started making Motherly Reminders: Sit up straight, look up and out when you walk, smile.

“What if they don’t want me to smile? Or if they say I should slouch?” I asked, just to be annoying. “Should I still do it?”

“Do exactly what they tell you, Celeste. I’m just trying to help.” She sounded hurt. I snuck a look at her. Hands tight on the wheel, forehead wrinkled, eyes locked on the road: She was nervous for me! My desire to annoy her flagged.

“Sorry, Mom. I guess I’m just anxious.”

She offered me a big smile and patted my hand. “I know. It’s okay. You’ll do great. Dad and I are very proud of you.”

The P-word again. Every time she said it, I felt terrible about what I was trying to do.

Do you want to win?
Red Bathing Suit Woman’s voice popped into my head.
’Cause you could try to do well today and become Miss HuskyPeach, if that’s what you really, really want. Be a chubby teen queen for the world to see.

That’s enough!
I told her.
I just want to be Celeste.

 

When we reached PeachWear, our guide—appearing just as frazzled as last time—led us through the office building into an attached warehouse. The main level was a big open area with a concrete floor and no windows. Above us, the other levels consisted of walkways made of metal grates that wrapped around the inside edges of the building. Conveyor belts and tracks crisscrossed the center shaft.

A runway attached to a stage was set up in the middle of the room, surrounded by chairs. Stylists, contestants, and their moms bustled around racks of clothes and the perimeter. Brownie and cookie trays were sprinkled throughout.
Can’t forget the snacks,
I thought with sarcasm. This time, thanks to all my work avoiding temptation, my tummy barely rumbled at the sight of them. Every whirring blow dryer and conversation was magnified and echoed around the room, competing with the sound of boxes and packages sliding along the conveyor belts.

“It’s a little noisy,” the guide said, practically yelling. “But this is the biggest space we own. This is our regional shipping warehouse. We didn’t expect to be sending a shipment today. Another center flooded last night and the stores it supplies need stock.” Mom struggled to look interested. I didn’t bother pretending.

The guide continued. “We’ve set up styling stations to make things more comfortable.” As she spoke, she walked around the stage at a brisk pace. I huffed a little, but discovered I was able to keep up. She led us to Christian.

As soon as he saw me and Mom, he put down his supreme-sized coffee and zipped over to dole out hugs. “Look who’s here,” he said. All my leftover anxiety and reluctance disappeared. I gave him a big smile.

Frazzled Guide made a clicking sound. “You’ve got thirty minutes,” she said, checking her watch. “Then I’ll take you to wardrobe.” She scuttled off without waiting to see if we had questions.

“Well, let’s get started,” Christian said. “Although I don’t think we’ll need that much time.” He winked and bent over his magic box.

While his back was to us, Mom gestured with the bag of makeup supplies we’d brought from home. “Ask him,” she mouthed. I went from Calm and Comfortable back to Shy and Anxious.

“Um, Christian,” I said. “I was wondering. I mean, if you have time, if you could show me how to . . . Last time, you said . . .” My words were as organized as his makeup toolbox.

He turned, pouffy brush in one hand, compact in another. “Absolutely. Like I said, it won’t take long.” He swished the brush in the powder and bent to apply it. I closed my eyes and waited. And waited.

What’s wrong?
I cracked my eyelids and peered out. Christian stood, brush poised and ready, eyes searching my face.

“Is everything okay?” Mom asked. That’s when I opened my eyes all the way. My stomach tightened.

Christian blinked and straightened. “Fine. No problem,” he said to Mom. “Your cheeks are different,” he said to me with a raised eyebrow. “Your face is thinner.”

My heart bounced into my throat. I struggled with shock and put on my Innocent Expression.
Negative Twenty? What Negative Twenty?

“Really?” I kept my voice as even as I could, but I wanted to dance, leap, and sing. Operation Skinny Celeste was working!

“I thought so.” Mom’s smile was smug.

Christian nodded and raised his brush. “Close your eyes,” he directed. The soft bristles tickled my cheeks. “See? Her cheekbones and chin are more defined.”

“She’s been working hard,” Mom said in response. Beneath my closed lids, I rolled my eyes.

After that, it was back to Christian’s Magic Show. A purse, pucker, and turn later, I was transformed. This time I paid special attention: There was no cold, slimy sponge-stuff smeared on my face.

“All set,” he said, offering me his hand mirror with a flourish. “Even more fabulous than before, if I may be so bold.”

This time, I reached for it without hesitation. Christian was right: Model Celeste was back, but better. He’d highlighted my cheeks, and for the first time I could see the changes he saw in the mirror. My face, which had been round, round, round like the rest of me, had a slight oval shape to it now. My chin, which had been hard to pick out between my neck and my cheeks, was defined. I grinned.

“Thank you,” I said.

“She’s beautiful,” Mom said. I’d forgotten she was there.

“Now, about your lessons,” Christian said, glancing at his watch. “We have plenty of time, so I’m going to—”

“Oh good,” Frazzled Guide interrupted. Her hair, smoothed into a neat bun when we arrived, had come loose and stray tendrils haloed her head. “You’re done. We’re late. You need to get to wardrobe right now.”

“But you said—” I began.

“But it’s not—” Christian started.

“But we’re—” Mom tried.

“Scheduling problem,” she replied, cutting us off with a wave of her hand. “Someone was accidentally left out; we have to push everything up a few minutes to make room. Let’s go,” she directed.

My heart gained all the weight my face had lost.
His magic only goes so far,
I thought. I slid out of the chair. Christian gave me a squeeze and a warm grin. “There’s always next time,” he said. “Go out there and wow them.”

I tried to smile. Mom said good-bye and we followed Frazzled Guide through the crowd to our next stop. As we walked, I watched other contestants being primped, moms hovering, and the packages on the upper levels of the warehouse sliding along the conveyor belts to their destinations.

On our way we saw Erika. On crutches. My face burned.

“How are you?” Mom asked, her face a reflection of my humiliation.

“Sprained,” Erika replied, packing the word with accusation.

“I-I-I’m so sorry,” I stammered, not able to meet her eye. “I feel—”

She tucked a crutch under her arm and waved me off. “I’ll be fine in another week or two, they think.”

“We need to go,” Frazzled Guide interrupted, pointing at her watch.

“Don’t be late on my account,” Erika said.

By the time we reached the makeshift wardrobe department on the other side of the room, I had counted six snack tables of cookies and brownies. My tummy was back to its rumbling self, even with Christian’s compliment.

Frazzled Guide stopped in front of a short chubby woman with wavy brown hair, rosy cheeks, and a wide smile. “Elsa, this is Celeste. She’s number”—she ran her finger down a sheet of paper taped to a rack of clothes—“eleven.”

Elsa nodded and placed a strong hand in the middle of my back. “Welcome to the HuskyPeach.”

Mom moved to the rack of clothes and fingered some of the dresses and skirts. Our guide tried to smooth her hair back into its bun.

“Okay. We start in”—another check of the watch—“twenty minutes. Celeste, once you’re finished with Elsa, please go directly to Staging Area Three.” She pointed clear across the warehouse. “I’ll be there with the group to give you instructions about the next part of the process.” She stepped away from us, then spun and returned before we could move. “Sorry. Nearly forgot. Once you’re in your PeachWear show clothes, we ask that you refrain from eating or drinking. You may have clear liquids, like water. If you want anything else, please get it now.”

So they
do
have snack limits,
I thought. “Thanks. I’m all set.”

Frazzled Guide spun away again. A long strand of dark hair unmoored from her bun and drooped to her shoulder. She gave it an angry swipe as she strode to her next contestant.