Perfect Shot

by Debbie Rigaud

  “Well, I don’t see why. We found your look especially alluring. In our book, that’s worthy of a callback.”

  Alluring? I didn’t know how to respond to that. I hadn’t even bothered to properly comb my hair that day. Plus, I didn’t trust myself to screw this up by saying anything else.

  “Hah,” I forced out of my throat in a well-how-about-that tone.

  “Wonderful, Miss Abrams.” Her back-to-business phone manner still sounded like a caricature of itself. “I will meet you then.”

  By the time I hung up, I was sure that this hadn’t been a joke. Still, from the sheer randomness of it all, I couldn’t help chuckling.

  Four

  “Just give me a second to let it sink in,” Pam requested. She let her body fall backward onto the mountain of pillows lining my bed. She had rushed over as soon as I texted her with the news. It had been only seven minutes since the stoic British caller’s unexpected phone call.

  When she was through staring at the ceiling fan, she asked me to take it from the top and retell the phone conversation for the umpteenth time. I obliged.

  “A-llur-ring.” Pam let the word balance on the tip of her tongue like a pirouetting ballerina.

  “Don’t get hung up on that description.” I plopped down on the sunlit window seat. I was tired of pacing. “It’s super noncommittal. It can mean everything and nothing much.”

  “What are you, crazy?” She sat up like she’d regained her energy. “I don’t know if you’re fishing for compliments, but don’t let me run through all your fly features. Starting with your prominent cheek bones, your graceful long neck and fit body. Matter of fact, I’d compare you to Jourdan Dunn— that model who was rippin’ the runway all New York Fashion Week.”

  “Hiiiii, Pam.” My brother Wyatt moseyed on into my room dressed like he just raided Ne-Yo’s gentleman’s closet.

  “Get out!” I pointed to the door. Ever since Wyatt turned twelve, he had started believing he could actually woo girls.

  “Catch you later.” He spun around like he had on Heelys and strolled on out with serious swagger.

  We both busted out laughing when the door closed behind him. I secretly wished I had as much resilience after a public rejection.

  “Anyway, Pam. You forget who you’re talking to.” I attempted to mask my uneasiness with accepting compliments. “The only reason I know as much as I do about Cynthea Bey is because she’s a hometown girl. I wouldn’t know Jourdan Dunn from the latest pair of Jordan sneakers.”

  Okay, so that last comment went a little overboard. I didn’t want Pam to think I was a complete ingrate.

  “But thanks, Pammie. You’re right— I’m gonna walk in there on Saturday and act like I know. It’s about me checking out something different.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Pam was also ready to shift from the mushy moment. “You just wanna go in to check out what Brent is all about.”

  “You ain’t nevah lie!”

  I ducked as she threw a 2004 USA Volleyball Team commemorative pillow at me.

  “You know what this means?” Mom asked me excitedly when I handed her the contest consent forms to sign. She twisted in her home office swivel chair to face me. “All that volleyball put you in great shape to do some modeling. I guess it wasn’t a bad thing after all!”

  “It was never a bad thing.” My words were peppered with a little attitude. I couldn’t help it. The woman confuses me sometimes. She’s the first one to brag about my v-ball games to relatives, yet she’d rather I be into some other extracurricular activity. “And that’s not why I picked up volleyball,” I reminded her.

  My mom didn’t need reminding about why I loved it. She was the one who first introduced me to the sport. I had just turned ten when the 2004 summer Olympics was in full swing. Prikeba “Keba” Phipps was on the USA’s women’s team. I was mesmerized watching all the extending of long limbs over the net with powerhouse moves that honored the women’s statuesque build.

  “You see what tall girls like you can do?” My mom’s voice was as comforting as her arm around me. It had been an awful day. During my summer camp trip to the Bronx Zoo, I’d overheard a group of kids crackin’ that I must’ve escaped from the giraffe enclosure. By the time I got home, I was crying my eyes out, blaming my mom for letting me leave the house wearing my favorite embroidered jean shorts. That was the day my adoration with shorts temporarily ended. I didn’t like the way they exposed my legs to ridicule. Years later, of course, I proudly rock my tiny volleyball shorts on the court.

  Since Giraffegate, I stopped slouching (for height-shrinkage effect) and started collecting a growing mental list of famous tall women— height five ten and higher—for inspiration. Today that list of nonmodels/nonballers includes gospel singer Yolanda Adams, Taylor Swift, Jordin Sparks, comedienne Aisha Tyler, TV chef Padma Lakshmi, girl golfer Michelle Wie, Queen Latifah, Mandy Moore, and First Lady Michelle Obama.

  “Aren’t you even gonna read the small print?” I watched, incredulous, as she happily scribbled her signature across the bottom of the form.

  “This is the best news,” she said, ignoring me. “I always hoped you would be a part of something like this. You always were a natural.”

  I’m a natural at volleyball, my inner brat hissed, giving her a raspberry.

  I didn’t bother bringing up my struggle to raise the sports-camp fee. It wouldn’t do me any good. My parents rarely renege on their decisions. It’s a policy they say started after the twins were born. I’ve heard the story a million times. Warren and Wyatt’s presence turned their smooth-sailing household into pure pandemonium and I’ve seen the pictures that prove it. (My favorite is the one of Mom unwittingly wearing two different kinds of shoes on her feet while out at the park. Talk about out of it.) And word is, that crazy era nearly split up Mom and Dad. The type-A personalities that they are— especially in my dad’s case—led my parents to crack down on the chaos by planning way ahead and sticking to those plans. So when my junior high school coach recommended I try for the Peak Performance program the summer after junior year, my parents locked that in their minds.

  Seeing her grinning from ear to ear over this modeling contest was so frustrating. I was almost positive that if I’d asked, my mom would have dropped a grand on this modeling contest before you could say, “Sashay, Chanté.” Somewhere inside, my emotional microwave popcorn bag was getting nuked on a revolving tray.

  The following Saturday at 9:15 a.m., I took a deep breath before entering Chic Boutique. Pam had convinced me not to dress like a screaming sports fan in the nose-bleed seats. So for the first time this season, I benched my MVP—the v-ball jersey—and wore one of Pam’s signature T-shirts as a sub.

  When Pam told me she designed this particular T with me in mind, I had to ask her if she’d ever met me. It’s nothing like my style. Off the shoulder on one side, it makes me look more muscular than I am. But I had to admit that the blue skinny jeans and tribal-print Old Navy flats that Pam had me rock made the outfit look extra cute.

  My hair was pulled back in a high bun, as always. But a satin head scarf added a chicer accent than the wide black bands I usually go with.

  Chic Boutique had a different look after hours. The center clothing fixtures had been pushed off to either side of the area in front of the expansive white checkout counter, creating a clearing sizable enough to have a dance-off in. Three tall bar stools positioned behind the counter faced this clearing. A few thin manila folders and pens were neatly lined up in front of each chair.

  I hope this is worth missing work today, I thought. Goth Guy hooked me up by taking my morning Art Attack shift. He was happy to do it because he said he owed me one. (Eager to pick up some extra cash, I’d volunteered to cover his early evening shift a few days prior.) I wasn’t expected to report to work until much later that afternoon.

  These days, I welcomed any opportunity to earn extra money for my summer camp. The fifteen-hundred-dollar fee was due in like three months and I only had t
hree hundred saved. I needed all the overtime and extra hours I could get. Crushing on someone new (and feeling excited about it!) couldn’t be a more fun distraction from all this financial pressure. I wondered when/if Loverboy would make an appearance.

  The contestants trickled in. I recognized a couple of them from casting day—like the Miss Popularity who fired off a million and one questions at Brent. Some of the girls carried leather portfolios with them. I suddenly felt unprepared. What if the British caller was so unimpressed with my reaction to her that she opted not to tell me to bring photos. Not that I have any professional photos of myself. But those JPEGs of me wearing Pam’s shirt designs for her blog are better than nothing.

  I noticed the girl with the pixie haircut. She was the only one who I felt comfortable talking to at this point. Awkwardly lurking around the sweater-dress fixture, she seemed approachable and more down-to-earth than the others.

  “Excuse me.” I lightly tapped her on the arm and she turned to face me. “Hi.” I introduced myself. “I’m London.”

  “I’m Maya.” She smiled slightly.

  “Hi, Maya. I was wondering if we were supposed to bring anything along with us today. Like photos?”

  “No, not that I know of.” Her eyes scanned the black portfolios that three girls were cradling in their arms. “I was just told to be here at nine thirty and expect to stay for about two hours.”

  Whew, I thought. That sounds about right.

  “Thanks,” I told her and meant it. Her normalness was reassuring, and I felt like I had company there even though that was all we said to each other for the rest of the morning.

  Oddly, I calmed down a bit and scolded myself for getting so caught up in the first place. After all, this contest wasn’t a huge deal. I had to remind myself of the time I performed like a champ on the volleyball court in front of a crowd of five hundred. I’m used to being in the mix and I rise to the occasion when it’s called for. How could I now let a fluffy competition like this take me off my game? Besides, I came only because I was curious about what this was all about. I wanted to find out if this was one big practical joke, or if they really were interested in me.

  When I’d counted that thirteen girls (including myself) were present, a rail-thin woman in black skinny jeans and a black beaded tunic appeared from the stock room. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail and her plum lipstick blended nicely with her suntanned skin. She was followed by a man in brown hornrimmed glasses and a crew cut, wearing a white T-shirt and a red checkered hipster head scarf around his neck. He looked like a gay rock star. I immediately decided to be his best friend if Pam ever ditched me for Cynthea Bey. Or even if she didn’t. And assuming he’d have me as a BFF.

  The fierce-looking woman in black was the first to speak.

  “We’re just waiting on one more judge and the rest of the contestants to join us,” she announced. My stomach did flip-flops when I recognized her voice. It was the British caller.

  The man whispered something in her ear and they both chuckled and kicked off a conversation.

  I heard the clickety clack of heels rushing to the scene. The final two contestants were arriving with only but a minute to spare before the 9:30 a.m. call time. Typical diva behavior. I had the feeling this was a tactical move to get all eyes on them as they walked in. That’s why I didn’t look. Maya fell for it hard. She turned her head in their direction and I watched as her eyes lingered and rolled up and down their bodies.

  Hmm, I thought. They must have some attention-grabbing gear on ’cause Pixie can’t look away. I couldn’t tell what her exact reaction was, but it was clear that they were interesting to look at.

  British Caller and Gay Rock Star were drawn to the latecomers as well. British Caller nodded at them as if to signal that she was impressed with their getups. I still refused to give them the satisfaction of looking their way.

  In the next second, the third judge arrived. She looked like an aging Kate Moss. She was hauling a handbag that was about half her size. It hinged on her bent elbow and slapped against her midriff with each long stride to the center counter.

  The other two judges took their positions, each perched high on a bar stool behind the counter. Equally fabulous official expressions formed on their faces. If this were a TV reality show, some dramatic, moment-of-truth music would be edited in at this point.

  “Welcome, ladies,” Mr. Rock Star bellowed like a stage actor and made eye contact with each of us. “My name is Didier Martineau and I’m the art director of what I’m sure is your favorite online fashion magazine, Facemag.com.” His charisma pulled a shy smile out of most of the nervous girls. He spoke like a local until he said his name— which he pronounced with a spectacular French accent, with extra emphasis on the throaty r’s. “Welcome, one and all.”

  “I believe I met most of you over the phone,” British Caller spoke next, pausing to peer at me and point her sharp chin in my direction. I wanted to throw one of the fixture’s coats over my head. “I’m Asha Kumar, editor in chief of Facemag.com. Didier and I are thrilled to be here for this, the first of what promises to be an annual model search for Chic Boutique. Facemag.com has partnered with Cynthea, a three-time Face cover girl. This is our way of continuing that partnership and collaborating on something we both feel strongly about: the next generation of fashion icons. All fifteen of you have been selected because of your individuality and singular appeal. We ask that you seriously consider if this contest is a journey you want to fully take on, because you are expected to stick with it unless dismissed either by online reader votes or the panel.”

  I was surprised that this was going to be such a huge event and not just about the store’s grand opening. How the heck did a simple, spur-of-the-moment ploy to get noticed by a boy land me here? I wondered with (slightly amused) bewilderment. They were giving me an easy out, but my curiosity was keeping my feet glued to the shiny boutique floor. In my head I sketched out a pros and cons chart. At the top of the pros column, I mentally scribbled Brent the Babe. Under that, I listed Doing something different. And, as much as I hated to admit it, somewhere on that column was The deep satisfaction of knowing Rick will kick himself when he realizes he unceremoniously dumped a modeling contestant with “singular appeal.” Of course, on the flip side, the number one con weighed as much as every pro put together. Fulfilling Mom’s wish for a “model” daughter definitely could make this feel less enjoyable. Another huge negative was the toll that a huge commitment like this would have on my work, school, and volleyball schedules.

  Despite all my inner arguments, I didn’t budge. The room was too jam-packed with tension. Looking as enthused as front-row VIPs at a haute couture fashion show, the fashionista panel was frozen in silence and wearing bored-with-life expressions. They stared at everyone for a few moments longer. I was glad when someone finally spoke.

  “I guess that leaves me.” The giggly third judge must’ve had one too many mimosas that morning. The girls laughed uncomfortably at her attempted joke. “I’m Monica Lester and I represent Bey Modeling Agency. Cynthea’s two-year-old agency has had much success in its short life. Now I’m proud to offer my insight into this modeling contest. You, darling ladies, will be judged on five key qualities found in both our valued Chic Boutique shopper and a professional model of Cynthea’s caliber—your presentation, professionalism, talent, personal style, and confidence. At the end of each of the contest’s first four weeks, three of you will be eliminated by online reader votes. In the fifth and final week, the winner, chosen by this panel of judges, will be the face of our spring campaign and the recipient of a one-year modeling contract with Bey Agency. And …” She paused to wink at us. “Watch this space for news of special gifts to be awarded to other worthy contestants.”

  “Any questions?” Asha looked around the room and her gaze landed at the back, where the latecomers had settled. “Yes, and can you please give us your name before you ask your question, so we can get the introductions s
tarted?”

  “Hi,” I heard the voice say. I knew it immediately. My heart rate quickened. “My name is Kelly Fletcher. I was just wondering, what inspired Cynthea to launch this contest?”

  This ain’t no press conference, I thought. Katie Couric called—she wants her interview questions back. Just trying to earn bonus points as usual. I stole a glance at Kelly, which didn’t help me feel any better. First of all, the girl was decked out like she’d swagger-jacked Rihanna. It was as if a professional stylist hooked up her outfit. A cropped biker-chick jacket, gray flouncy miniskirt, black tights, a killer pair of ankle boots, and accessories galore. Her long brown hair was bent into large curls so she looked even more Vanessa Hudgens–esque than usual.

  “That’s an excellent question,” a clearly impressed Asha responded. “This has always been a dream of Cynthea’s. As you all know, she’s a hometown girl and was raised just a few blocks away from this very spot. The people and places that inspired her are all around her and she wants to give thanks to Teawood and this whole county and state by offering one of Jersey’s own a chance at success in the fashion industry.”

  Asha paused in case there was a follow-up question. Her triangular face was poised like a pampered kitten. Asking questions and engaging her in discussion seemed to be the way to win her favor. She reminded me of the type of person Oprah would invite on as a guest, someone whose enthusiasm for her job was palpable. Like Cesar Millan the Dog Whisperer or Lisa Ling the intrepid global reporter. Asha loved what she did for a living, I could see that now.

  “If there are no other questions, let’s have the rest of you introduce yourselves, please.” Her smile was genuine.

  “It’s my pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve read a lot about you and I’ve enjoyed your writing for years.” The girl next to Kelly finally took a breath. I felt embarrassed for her because she squeaked as if someone squeezed her tummy, Kewpie-doll-style, to force air and words out of her mouth. That’s how excited about the contest she was. She had been bobbing her head while talking as if she were being manipulated by an invisible puppeteer hand resting in the back of her head.