Picture Perfect

by P. G. Kain

  I am about to turn around and head out of the library, when the thought of being stuck in our crummy apartment all summer flashes through my mind. Ginger will be in Chinese school, and I’ll be eating Easy Mac three times a day until I can’t fit through the door. The fire department will have to come and cut a hole in the building so I can go back to school in September. Not to mention that I’ll have absolutely zero chance of seeing Rory or having my dad see me on TV. I can’t let Nevin ruin my life.

  This class is the only chance I have, and I’m taking it.

  “But Nevin,” I say. “You’re supposed to take Foundations of Science next year. You’re only in sixth grade.”

  “I know, but if I take it this summer, I can skip seventh-grade science and take eighth-grade science in the fall. Hey, we might even be in the same class next year,” Nevin says as a wide smile grows across his face. If only he knew he might not have to wait that long.

  CHAPTER 6

  After school I make a quick stop at Trinkets, the jewelry shop on Eighth Street next to the bookstore. I know logic and good reason are the primary motivators in my mother’s decisions, but I figure a small present might help her have an easier time making a decision in my favor. Everything in the store is a knockoff of the accessories that are sold in fancy department stores, but here the prices are a fraction of what the real things cost. Ginger and I shop here a lot to experiment with trends and see what’s current. A month ago we thought these neon feather earrings we started seeing around would hit it big-time, so we came to Trinkets to buy a pair on the cheap. When it turned out they flopped, we didn’t feel too bad since we spent only five bucks on one pair that we shared between us. We might have worn them longer if the bright-lime-green peacock feather didn’t tickle our necks so much.

  It doesn’t take me long to find the exact locket that Ashley was wearing at the last audition I had. It’s a bubbly heart shape with a lacy design all over it, a small latch on one side, and an even smaller hinge on the other. They come in gold, silver, white, and pink, and they are each only five dollars. I hold the pink one in my hand, since that is the color I would get for myself, but there is no way my mother would wear something so pink. Ashley was wearing the gold one, and I remember her saying that was what all the fake moms were wearing, so that’s the one I decide to get.

  You would never see any of my mom’s jewelry, if you can even call it that, in a commercial. A while ago she went through this crafting period where she made all these pieces from recycled objects. She had a necklace she made from old typewriter keys, a bracelet of bottle caps, and earrings that were once, cringe, Christmas ornaments. She uses the term “repurposed” to describe these creations, but I find them without purpose. This necklace is lovely and will be at least one piece of jewelry that did not have a previous life.

  The salesgirl wraps the necklace in a fancy gold box and lets me choose the color ribbon I would like. I ask for silver, and she curls the ribbon so it cascades all over the neatly wrapped square.

  That night I finish all my homework before dinner in case my mom wants to do a spot check. When I’m done, I place the brochure and course description for summer school that I got from the library on the dining room table next to the wrapped present.

  She pulled the plug on my go-sees because of my terrible grade in Foundations of Science. Mrs. Green, the secretary in the guidance office, assured me that if I take the course again over the summer, the new grade will replace the old grade. Since it’s only one class and I’ve already gone through a lot of the material, getting a good grade should take minimum effort. Plus, it meets only two days a week, leaving me plenty of time for auditions. My mom just has to go for this idea.

  The thought of calling my dad to rally his support crosses my mind, although I’m not exactly sure what time zone he’s in at the moment, so he could be in the middle of something really important or even sleeping. I don’t like to think about the fact that he is so far away. In fact, I sort of just pretend he is working a few blocks away, and it usually works. But every now and then I notice his favorite cereal bowl sitting unused in the cabinet or hear the squeak of the bathroom door that he is supposed to fix.

  Now that he travels so much, I hardly ever get to see him, but at least he gets to see me, even if it is just for thirty seconds. Also, I can’t exactly call him up and tell him that I’m worried he might forget what I look like if he doesn’t see me on TV every now and then. I don’t want him to feel guilty about the fact that he has to travel so much for work.

  I consider cleaning up the kitchen to score some extra points with my mother, but the truth is, the room is a total disaster, and the time I would spend cleaning it would make only the smallest dent in the disarray.

  A few months ago I booked a local spot for a bank that was shot on an amazing kitchen set. Everything was spotless and brand-new. There were enough touches on the set, like drawings on the refrigerator and a bowl of dog food next to the door, to make it feel cozy, but not so many as to make the kitchen look messy. I never wanted to leave that kitchen and come back to this one, where the cabinets don’t close and the handle on the coffeemaker is held on by some masking tape. The kitchen set was like a daydream or a fairy tale, if fairy tales were set in suburban kitchens instead of castles. Fake sunlight streamed through the fake windows so it looked like a sunny spring morning, even though it was actually snowing outside. It was perfect except for the fact that there were only three walls instead of four, so the cameras could film, and then if you went around the other side of the kitchen, you saw that the walls were basically thick cardboard.

  Instead of cleaning the kitchen, I decide to study until my mom comes home. Of course, for most kids this would mean opening a book. For me it means plopping on our lumpy couch and watching TV. I don’t check the schedule to see what’s on, because I don’t care. I’m not watching the programs. Like all the other go-see girls, I’m watching what happens in between the programs. Studying the commercials allows me to stay up on current trends and see who got cast in what. The first commercial I see is for a bank, and while there aren’t any girls in it, I have seen the guy playing the teller at a callback. I think his name is Paul. He’s short and a little chubby, and he makes these totally hysterical faces. I think he books a lot. When I met him at the callback for an insurance company, he was playing a crossing guard, and he had all the kids cracking up because he was twisting his face into these incredible contortions.

  The next commercial starts with the exterior shot of a peaceful suburban house and quickly cuts to the interior. I shout out loud because Ashley, my favorite fake mom, is pretending to dust her house using some new and improved dust cloth. I know this spot, because I got a callback. “Mom, you missed a spot,” an off-screen voice says. I totally remember saying that line over and over again in as many different ways as I could. Then I see that Phoebe booked the spot. She looks great, and I love the way she says the line. She’s really perfect in it, yet I still get a pang of jealousy seeing her on TV with my favorite fake mom.

  The news comes back on, and I shut off the TV, since my mom will be home any second. When I hear her key in the door, I grab the present off the table and run over to greet her. “Hi, Mom,” I say, then give her a big hug and hand her the box. “This is for you.”

  “What’s this?” she says, taking the box and pulling off the silver ribbon before opening the lid. “Oh, it’s a necklace,” she says. At that moment I notice she is wearing a necklace made out of “repurposed” paper clips. I’m not a moment too soon.

  “Actually, it’s a locket,” I tell her.

  “Well, thank you. It’s very sweet of you, Cassie,” she says, putting the present on the table. “But I must tell you I’m not going to change my mind about the summer unless we can figure out a way to improve your grades.”

  I step back from my mother and say, “Well, what if I told you I have that all figured out?” I take her hand and walk her to the dining room table, where she sees the m
aterials I have on display.

  “Two words, Mom. Summer. School.” She takes a seat, and I begin my sales pitch. I emphasize the fact that the new grade will replace my old grade and how having only one class to take will make it easier for me to focus. During this initial pitch, I don’t mention commercials at all.

  “Well,” my mother says, crossing her arms, “I’m very impressed. It looks like you did a lot of research. When does this class meet?”

  I take a deep breath and decide to go for the close. “That’s the best part,” I say, imagining I am at an audition. “It meets early in the morning only twice a week, so I would still have my other days free.” Still I do not utter the words, “go-see.”

  “Mm-hmm,” my mother says without opening her mouth. She looks at me suspiciously over the top of her glasses. “And whatever would you do during that free time?” she asks, knowing full well what my answer will be.

  “Mom, please. I promise I’ll get at least a B. It will be so easy. You said we needed to improve my grade, and this will do it.”

  My mom gets up from the table, takes the brochure in her hand, and looks at it carefully. I think this is a good sign. She examines the brochure for a few minutes and then looks up at me and says, “A-minus.”

  I try to show no reaction. She is seriously considering my suggestion. My heart is pounding. I just have to make this work. Now an A-minus would be a total struggle, but I make sure my face doesn’t reveal even a trace of panic and say, “B-plus.”

  My mom thinks for a moment. We stare at each other in silence, and then she says, “Okay. You promise to get a B-plus or better in summer school, and I’ll call your agent tomorrow and tell her you’re available as soon as summer vacation begins.”

  I did it. I really did it. I’m so happy I hug my mom, and this time I am truly expressing my genuine affection and joy. I step back from my mom, give her my best commercial smile, and say, “Mom, now that deserves a cheer!”

  CHAPTER 7

  I’m so excited that I convinced my mother to lift her ban on go-sees that it takes me forever to get to sleep that night. I just stare up at my ceiling in the darkness, picturing myself on the set of some commercial. Cleaning product commercials are the best because the sets are always pristinely clean and the wardrobe is usually conservative and simple. Maybe I’ll even book something where Ashley plays my mother. Or maybe I’ll book something with Rory. Even having a callback with him would give us an opportunity to hang out more.

  After hours of fantasizing, I finally get to sleep at 2:08 a.m. I know the exact time because at 2:09 a.m. my cell phone starts to vibrate. I don’t even have to look at the caller ID to know who it is. I swallow hard so it doesn’t sound like I just woke up.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say, loud enough so it doesn’t sound like I’m trying not to wake up my mom, but quiet enough so I don’t wake her up.

  “Hi, Peanut,” my dad says. Peanut is a horrible name that I actually despise, but I’ve never told my dad that. He likes to call me Peanut, so I just let him. The truth is, I am so excited to hear from him when he calls that he could call me Matilda McGee for all I care. I have gone from seeing my dad every day at every meal to maybe seeing him a few times a month. He always says he’s going to take me on the road with him one of these days, but he’s been really busy lately, so I just have to wait until things get a little calmer for him.

  “I know it’s late in New York, Peanut, but I just had to call you. You’ll never guess what I just saw.”

  “What?” I ask.

  He tells me how there is this huge flat-screen TV in the lobby of his hotel, and he was with some business friends watching SportsCenter or some kind of sports show on some sports network that I have never heard of. “Well, we’re watching the show and they cut to a commercial and BAM! It’s my little girl with her face as big as a car.”

  “Really?” I ask, unable to contain my excitement.

  “It was a commercial for some type of security system or something,” he says.

  “Taylor Trust,” I say. “I’m standing outside a white house with blue shutters, and there are two people playing my parents dressed like we’re going on a picnic, and there’s this huge golden retriever. Right?” I did that shoot almost six months ago. I remember it was the middle of January and freezing outside, but we had to pretend like it was the perfect summer day for a picnic. I was even wearing shorts, and in between takes the wardrobe lady wrapped me in a blanket so I wouldn’t freeze to death.

  “Yeah, yeah. That’s it!” he says. His voice is filled with excitement and pride. It feels great to hear him talk this way. He tells me how he jumped in front of the TV and told everyone that the girl in the commercial was his daughter, Cassie. “It was so cool, Peanut.”

  I smile to myself and try to stifle a yawn. Even though I am majorly excited that my dad saw me in a spot, it’s still two o’clock in the morning and I’m a little groggy. I guess my dad finally picks up on this.

  “Oh, jeez, did I wake you up? What time is it there?” he asks.

  “Oh, it’s not that late,” I say. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Palo Alto this week. Look, go back to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

  “You didn’t wake me up,” I lie. “I can’t wait to see you next week,” I tell him. Seriously, I have been marking the days off on my calendar. Last visit he took me to the Statue of Liberty, and then we had dinner at South Street Seaport. Everything was so perfect it was like being in a commercial. “What time does your flight get in?” I ask.

  There is a pause. At first it’s a small pause. You almost wouldn’t notice it. Then it turns into an actual pause, and when we reach long pause I officially get freaked out because we are moments away from a silence. Then, there it is. We are now officially experiencing a silence, ladies and gentlemen, so please take your seats.

  Eventually, “Yeah, about that . . .,” my dad begins, and he doesn’t really need to finish for me to know what he’s going to say. “Things have been moved around, and I’m not gonna be able to make it next week.”

  “Oh,” is all I say. I don’t want to make him feel bad, since I know it isn’t his fault. Well, not exactly his fault.

  “It’s late there, and you should go back to bed. If your mom finds out I called so late, she’ll have a fit. I’m gonna look at my schedule and we will figure out a visit real soon, okay?”

  “That sounds great, Dad,” I say, trying to sound excited and happy, but it just doesn’t happen. My voice reeks of disappointment.

  “Good night, Peanut,” he says.

  “Good night, Dad,” I say, and hang up the phone and slip it back under my pillow.

  CHAPTER 8

  Usually I mark the countdown until the last day of school in days, but this year I do it in hours. Each morning, before we walk to school, I greet Ginger with, “Three hundred and twenty-two more hours,” or whatever number we are at instead of just saying, “Hello” or “Good morning.”

  The last day of school traditionally marks an ending, but this year it also marks a beginning. After my last class today, my last class for the school year, I will go on my first go-see in twenty-three days. Part of the deal with my mother was that I would finish the school year without distraction. Little did she know that keeping me from auditions proved to be a greater distraction than any booking ever could have been. Since the ban I have thought of nothing else but when the ban will be lifted. Finally, today at three fifteen, after 552 hours, I could possibly go on an audition.

  I knock on the door to Ginger’s apartment for our walk to school. I’m prepared to say the word “Eight!” and hold up as many fingers, but before I can get the word out of my mouth, the door swings open and Ginger yells, “Eight!” and holds up a blueberry muffin with the number eight on the top made out of blueberries.

  We both laugh out loud, and I say, “I don’t know who’s is going to be happier in eight hours. Me, because the ban is lifted, or you, because you don’t have to hear about it
anymore.”

  “Yeah,” Ginger says. “That’s a tough call. You have been a little obsessed lately, but that’s why I wanted to celebrate. My mom and I made these last night. Cute, huh?”

  She holds up another muffin, and I pretend to take a bite like I would during an audition and say, “These muffins are eight-zactly what I wanted,” using my best commercial voice and smile. Ginger laughs and takes a real bite of her muffin, and I do the same as we walk to the very last day of school.

  We sit on the front steps of the school building and finish our muffins, since we’re a few minutes early. At first we just chitchat about who looks dorky in the yearbook and what kids are going on cool vacations, and then Ginger says, “I’m thinking about getting a perm.”

  “What?” I ask as if I didn’t hear or something, even though I heard every word.

  “A perm. My hair is sooo boring. I need something special. Something a little different,” she says, without looking me in the eye. I know exactly what this is about.

  “Ginger,” I tell her, “your hair is absolutely gorgeous. It’s midnight black, perfectly straight and silky. You don’t even have a single split end. It’s beautiful.” It’s true Ginger has beautiful hair. Her hair could be on the front of a box of hair dye or on a bottle of shampoo.

  “I guess it’s okay for hair, but it’s so—so—” She stammers for the word for a second. “Boring.”

  “Your hair is not boring.” I search for the exact right phrase. “It’s classic.” Ginger frowns. She does not want to be classic. We sit in silence for just a few seconds, and then I say, “Does this perhaps have anything to do with the fact that you will be seeing Ming-wei next week?”

  “Of course!” Ginger says, throwing her hands in the air. “I mean, this will be the third summer of going to Chinese school, pretending to learn a few hundred new characters while the whole time obsessing over a boy who I’m not sure even knows I’m alive. I just have to do something to have him notice me this summer.”