Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies (17 page)

“Looks like she’s on her way to falling apart,” Mom muttered.

“On her way?” Elsa asked. “I bet she’s hiding behind the racks before today’s over.” She put her hands on her hips and turned to me. “Number eleven, right?” When I nodded, she said, “I have just the thing for you. Wait here.” She disappeared into the clothing rack maze.

Mom put her arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. “You are so beautiful, honey. I can’t wait to see what Elsa has in store for you.”

Torn between feeling guilty and proud, I lowered my eyes to my feet.

Mom dropped her arm and scanned the room, a distracted expression on her face. “I shouldn’t have had one of Christian’s coffees after that bottle of water in the car,” she said, eyes darting around the space. “I really have to go to the bathroom. Did you see one when we came in?”

“No,” I answered, “but I’m sure you can ask one of the guides. There’s one over there.” I pointed at a petite blond woman in SkinnyBanana black.

“Will you be okay?” Mom asked. She shifted back and forth while waiting for my response.

“Yeah,” I said. Elsa emerged from the maze, a bundle of burnt orange fabric wrapped in her arms as a prize. Mom bolted.

“Is something wrong?” Elsa asked. Arms full, she nudged me in the direction of a black fabric makeshift dressing room cubicle.

“Just looking for the bathroom,” I responded. I stopped in front of what I assumed was the door—a piece of cloth tied back with a red ribbon.

“Oh.” Elsa shook her head. “She’ll be a while. There’s only one women’s bathroom on this level, and there was a line when I was there. And it’s on the other side of the building.”

Hope she gets back in time,
I thought, my nerves acting up.

You’re awfully nervous about a contest that you don’t want to win,
Red Bathing Suit Woman said.
Or have you changed your mind? Have a brownie.
I frowned at her.

“Here’s your gown. There’s a shopping bag on the floor of the changing room for your clothes. You did bring your own shoes, right?” I raised my bag. “Good, good,” she said.

Another guide appeared with Ashley Freeman and her mom. They were wearing less makeup this week. I guess their stylist had taught them some tricks as well. Ashley grinned.

“You look great!”

“Thanks,” I replied. “You too.” She’d traded the Purple Bell-Sleeved Shirt of Awkwardness for a sleeveless blue dress that brought out her eyes.

“Heard about what happened with Erika last week,” Ashley continued, her voice lowered. “Are you okay?”

I studied her face. Was she making fun of me? No, I decided. She was genuinely concerned.

“I’m fine . . .”

Her mom nudged her before I could say more. “Ash-
ley,
don’t make friends with the competition.” Ashley rolled her eyes.

Ashley’s guide waved at Elsa, as if to hurry her along.

“In with you, then,” Elsa said to me. “When you’re done, come find me and I’ll make any adjustments. It shouldn’t need much—we took your measurements right off your application.” She thrust the dress at me and went to help Ashley, whose mother tugged her away to what she probably considered was a “safe distance” from the competition.

I pushed my way into the changing room. The bulky dress was hard to see around, and the black fabric walls didn’t help. I ended up running into the clothes hanger pole. It wobbled, but didn’t fall over.
Don’t need another disaster,
I thought.
I can take care of losing just fine.
I looped the hanger over the hook and finally got a good look at my attire for the day: a ball gown.

A big skirt, made of some shiny fabric that I didn’t recognize, fanned to the floor. The rich orange color resembled fire. The top was trimmed with clear beads that I knew would sparkle under the lights on the stage. Oddly, though, the straps that held the dress to the hanger were made of thin white cotton strings—not even close to matching the rest of it.
It’s probably part of the “look,”
I thought. Outside of the Modeling Challenge, there’d be no way I’d wear it—too scratchy, too revealing, too . . .
much. But, according to my mother, what do I know?
One thing I
did
know: There was no way those flimsy straps would hide my blue and white floral bra. I’d have to go free-style.

Fan-tastic,
I thought, and scowled. I piled my clothes into the shopping bag (printed with a bold HuskyPeach emblem), and once standing in my “unmentionables,” as Grandma called them, I realized that I was not entirely comfortable taking my bra off in the makeshift changing room. The solution to my problem came straight out of Coach Anapoli’s gym class: Put the dress on first and pull the bra out second.

Do I step into it?
I thought, studying it on the hanger. I didn’t see how I could. Instead, I dug under the hem, through the irritating tulle, to find the opening. Swimming up through layers of fabric, I tugged the whole thing over my head. When my head and shoulders cleared the top of the dress, I peered down at where the straps should’ve been, to loop my arms through.

“Hi there,” came Elsa’s voice through the curtain and over the clamor of the warehouse, “do you need help with the zipper or anything?”

Zipper? What zipper?
My hands flew across the top of the dress, patting and searching for seams. Couldn’t find one.
Oh no. Did I wreck it?

“Uh, no? No. I’m okay. Thank you,” I said, trying to sound convincing and quiet my slamming heart.

“Just give a holler if you need me,” she said. I waited until I was sure she was gone before I moved again.

Please, please don’t let it be ruined,
I thought. This time, I reached around to the back of the dress. And felt the zipper seam that split it from the top to below the waist. It was still closed, and I couldn’t feel any tears around it.
Phew
. My heart slowed down. I returned to dealing with the straps.

It was then I realized that I had two very large problems. One, those little white string things weren’t straps. They were teeny loops that kept the dress on the hanger. And two? The top was too big.

Okay, I had three problems. The third? The only items qualified to hold up my Giant Gown of Fire were my hands, clenched firmly at the top of the dress.

HOW CAN I walk down a runway like this? What if they want me to hold something?
I spun in a circle, hoping I missed a crucial accessory—like suspenders. No luck. Next, I actually spun the dress itself. On me. It was large enough that all I had to do was lift my arms and I could slide it around. No hidden straps, buttons, zippers, or ties that I could see.
I’d even settle for staples,
I thought.

This is what it’s like to be skinny,
Red Bathing Suit Woman whispered to me.
Isn’t it nice to have something not fit—and have it be too big?

Knock it off,
I responded.
This is what it’s like to be panicked.
This was a certifiable Aunt Doreen Moment: I was shaking, sweating, and if I had anyone to talk to, there’d be screeching.

In a moment of clarity, I remembered:
Elsa. Elsa can fix it. She can make adjustments.
I looped the handles of my shopping bag over one arm, clutched the top of the dress, and pushed out of the clothing curtain.

Elsa’s Rack Maze stood to my right. The spot where Elsa met me and the other contestants was empty
. She’s probably getting someone a dress
. I waited, guides scooting back and forth with moms and girls. Elsa still didn’t come back.

Instead, a loud horn tooted, silencing the chatter and freezing everyone where they stood. A voice blared over the PA system.

“Walk-through begins in five minutes. I repeat, five minutes. All contestants, please report to your staging area. Parents and stylists, take your seats.”

Like everyone else, I went into Full-Blown Panic mode. Only, instead of trying to primp or smooth for one last time, I fled.
Have to find help,
I thought.
Have to find help,
over and over again.

Every guide I tried to stop waved me in the direction of the staging areas. “Just go there,” they said. I headed in the direction of Staging Area Three, still clutching my dress top and shopping bag. As I crossed the big room, a flash of scarlet caught the corner of my vision. I stopped and turned my head to see my Gateway to Freedom: a big red EXIT sign.

I’ll go out, change, sneak into the seats, and deal with Mom later.
My heart pounded as hard as it had the day of the Fitness Challenge, and
that
had not ended prettily. Without another thought, I headed straight for the door.

Just a few more steps,
I thought.
Almost there.
And then I was. It was a big steel door with a push bar across it, like the caf doors at school. As I reached for the bar with one hand (the other still holding up my gown), it jerked. I almost let go of the dress in surprise.

The door swung open, and I nearly crashed into Violet Page, who was trying to get in as fast as I was trying to get out. She was wearing track pants and a hoodie.
One more reason to be jealous of her.

“Whoa,” she said, waving a hand around her head. I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. “Where are you going?”

The heat coming off my face could have melted metal. I gave her what I’m sure was a pathetic look—I didn’t even have to try—and gestured at my dress with my chin.

“It, uhh, doesn’t fit, and I couldn’t find anyone to help me,” I said.

“Too big?”

I nodded.

“Okay. We don’t have much time.” She tugged my elbow and led me back into the warehouse. Later, I realized that she didn’t even ask why I was
leaving
the building to get help.

She stopped one of the petite guides. “Hey—I need your binder clip.” Violet removed it from the pile of papers the woman was carrying and sent her on her way. “Skinny thing—have a sandwich,” she muttered at her retreating black back. I giggled and Violet gave me her attention.

“This is an old trick,” she said, guiding me to the side and out of traffic. “Put your arms up.” When I hesitated, she frowned at me. “Look, I don’t care what your girls are doing in there. I’m just going to make sure they continue to do it in private.”

I raised my arms without a word. She didn’t let the dress fall, but slid behind me and grabbed the extra fabric. Then she folded and rolled it. I heard a click and felt cold metal between my shoulder blades. Then came the sound of tape being pulled from a dispenser. I strained to see over my shoulder.

“Double-stick,” she said, pulling a few inches off the roll. “I always keep it in my purse. Trick of the trade.” She peeled the backing off, slid her hand inside my dress, and stuck the tape to my side. Then she pressed the fabric to my skin. Before I had time to be surprised that someone I barely knew was putting tape all over me, she was done. None too soon either.

“Attention, contestants. Two minutes to the show. Please report to your staging area,” the voice boomed. “Violet Page, please report to the judges’ table.”

“Arms down,” Violet said. She moved and stood in front of me. “Gotta go. This will hold you up fine. Just don’t put your arms over your head and you’ll be all set. Good luck. You look great.” She jogged in the direction of the stage.

“There you are.” Frazzled Guide appeared at my elbow. “We’ve been looking all over for you. You missed our group’s walk-through. We’re late. Can you listen and walk?”

I nodded, arms clasped to my sides, shopping bag of clothes I’d rather be wearing bumping against my knees.

“Each contestant comes onstage, goes down to the end of the runway, pivots, and comes back. The next contestant starts when the one before her finishes her pivot. So you’ll pass someone on the way out and back. Got it?”

“Uh-huh,” I said through clenched teeth. I was afraid that the dress would fall if I even opened my mouth.
Why did Violet have to be coming in right then?

“Violet is going first, then we’re up,” Frazzled Guide said. Her bun was a bird’s nest mess at the back of her head. We’d arrived at our staging area, where I saw Gail for the first time that day. Wearing an eggplant and electric blue dress—with enviable thick straps—she looked gorgeous, but terrified.

“So glad you’re here,” she whispered.

“Really?” I said before I could stop myself. Gail had been so quiet during the previous session, I had no idea if she liked me or not. She nodded her head.

“You’re one of the most normal ones here. Everyone else is so . . . pageant-ized.” Her description made me laugh. Frazzled Guide, however, wasn’t in the mood for humor or conversation in her group.

“Get in line behind Ashley,” she directed me, silencing Gail with a wave. “Remember: You go out when she finishes her spin. Girls!” She raised her voice to get everyone’s attention. “The judges will be evaluating you on poise, confidence, and attractiveness. So walk pretty and smile big!”

A dance remix of “Dreaming Without You” blared through the building’s speakers, covering the hum of the conveyor belts and sliding packages, soothing me even though its familiar melody had been amped up. Theo Christmas can make any bad situation better. An announcer’s voice welcomed everyone to the second round of the PeachWear Modeling Challenge.

“Before we begin, Violet Page, our celebrity judge and former PeachWear model, will show our contestants what’s expected of them.” The announcer’s voice faded and the volume of the music rose.

A kernel of excitement formed in the midst of my dress-related anxiety. It’s not every day you get to see a real model strut the catwalk.

In a warehouse, under bright lights,
Red Bathing Suit Woman added.

You’re just jealous,
I responded.
No matter how good your diet drink is, you’re still stuck in a crumpled advertisement in last month’s trash.
There was nothing she could say to that one.