Perfect Shot

by Debbie Rigaud

  “Modeling is something you have to have passion for. It’s a tough business to be in and it takes a certain type of person to make it. And the modeling contract with Bey Agency is one that is an opportunity of a lifetime, so we wanted to give it to a person with heart for the game. For this Face of Spring honor, our girl had to possess a sense of fun, freedom, and adventure. Of course, this person had to have a nice build to model the clothes. But we were also interested in a Jersey girl with local sensibilities. Before we started our search, we thought this was an ambitious list of criteria that would be tough to find in one person. But after carefully considering both her performance during the challenges and the way in which she was received by Facemag.com readers, we’re confident that we’ve found everything and more in this contestant.”

  Pixie started fidgeting where she stood. Kelly held her head higher as if bracing for a recovery in the event that she was passed over. It was like that look Oscar nominees have just after they lose to someone else. I didn’t bat an eye. I knew exactly who the more model-minded two-thirds of us were. Anything less would have been totally unfair.

  “On this day we are so proud to accept Maya Kwon into the Bey Agency. And congratulations, Maya, on being crowned Chic Boutique’s Face of Spring.”

  Maya screamed in utter delight. It was the loudest sound to come out of her during this entire competition. She seemed thrown by the honor. Tears streamed down her face as she screamed a second time. The judges stood up and applauded Maya.

  This was when the pageant element came into play. Kelly walked to Pixie with her arms outstretched. I was surprised to see that much emotion come spilling out of Kelly like it had been bottled just below the surface for a long time.

  She wasn’t a robot after all.

  I hugged Maya next.

  “Congratulations,” I told her. “I’m so happy for you.”

  As cliché as that sounded, it was the truth. Kelly and I didn’t exchange any pleas-antries. I didn’t have a thing to say to her. But I had the feeling she was coming to the same conclusion as me—we’d defeated ourselves by reviving our pointless childhood competition.

  Twenty

  When my family and I turned down Chic Boutique’s street, we could see that there was fanfare outside the store. Traffic had slowed because of the valet parking the boutique had set up just for the night.

  “Woo-wee,” my dad said, echoing his own father’s favorite reaction. “I see you have friends in high places, London. La-ti-da.”

  “That’s only because she’s so dang tall.” Wyatt couldn’t resist taking a shot.

  Warren looked at him like he was crazy. I never understood how they could be so night-and-day.

  “Said the chump sittin’ on the hump,” I shot back from my window seat next to him.

  Everyone in the car chuckled

  “We’re next on the valet line.” My mom pulled down her passenger-seat visor and popped open the mirror on it. She finger combed her short curly hair and rubbed her lips together to smooth over her bronze lipstick. She looked amazing. Dad couldn’t stop saying “Woo-wee” as we were leaving the house. Even my father and the twins looked sharp with their dapper suits on. Dad was a firm believer in straying from the clinical white shirts, so he and the boys all rocked striped or pastel-colored shirts and ties to go with their dark suits.

  Monica the judge was too happy to go over wardrobe selections with me for the evening. It was complements of Chic Boutique. A rack of evening gowns was delivered to the boutique earlier in the day and was waiting for me in the basement. I was invited down to try on a few. Monica was superhelpful in pinpointing the right dress for my body and my personal taste. We both agreed that the maroon off-the-shoulder cocktail dress was the best choice.

  Layla came over to help me style my hair. We let it down in all its curly fro glory. It was a look I only ever rock at home. But with some Carol’s Daughter styling products and lots of hair pins, she was able to pull it off so it didn’t look too puffy. I loved it. Next, she’d hooked up my makeup with a barely there touch of glimmering eye shadow and pink-glazed gloss on my lips. It was all I was willing to put on. I still wanted to recognize myself at the end of the day.

  “Remember, boys,” Mom said as she put the visor back up and turned to face us in the backseat, “don’t embarrass yourselves in there tonight. Because you sure ain’t gonna embarrass us.”

  As we pulled up, I spotted Brent waiting for me on the sidewalk. He looked so dreamy all dressed up in a black wool coat and a smile. My family got out of the car and stepped right onto the red carpet leading to the front door of the boutique. The valet drove our family car to an offsite parking area.

  “Oh, hello, young man.” My mother recognized Brent, who was waiting to walk in with me.

  “Hello, Mrs. Abrams,” he responded politely. His former intern partner started snapping away at us.

  “You look beautiful, London,” he said, watching me from the side.

  My cheeks got warm despite the evening temperature.

  “Awww.” Wyatt seized the opportunity. He started to say something but decided against it when he caught my mother’s glare.

  “Can I get you all standing close together?” the other photographer called out. When we huddled, he snapped two or three flashbulbs in our faces.

  “We also need a shot of London by herself.” He instructed me to stand in the center of the red carpet.

  “Take off your coat!” Mom called out after he snapped a few. I looked at her like she was crazy.

  “It’ll only be for a few seconds.” She was already next to me, tugging the coat off. “The stars do it all the time. You’ll be happy that you did it when you see my pictures.”

  I shot a look at my dad so that he would come get his woman. He looked away and whistled.

  “Come on, boys, let’s get inside,” he finally said with a smirk. “It’s freezing out here!”

  The twins chimed in with wicked laughs and followed Dad through the double glass doors.

  “Oh, it’s like that, huh?” I called after them.

  Mom pulled away with my coat and my bare arms tingled like, What are we doing exposed like this? I held my clutch purse in front of me with both hands, shifted my weight to one leg, and posed for three quick shots.

  Mom was back with my coat in no time.

  “So folks don’t think I’m mistreating my child,” she said while helping me get it back on. As soon as we walked in, we found my dad and brothers picking hors d’oeuvres off a waiter’s platter.

  Chic Boutique was decked out. There were velvet curtains draping across the ceiling beams. The chandelier lights were dimmed, creating a ballroom feel in the warehouse space. Racks of clothes were neatly tucked to the sides, and a gigantic area rug was laid down. Jazz music was playing on the speaker system, instead of the usual sounds of hiphop or rock. A black makeshift platform was erected where the center counter usually was. Three microphones stood on the platform, which was flanked by more velvet curtains.

  “Congratulations, London.” Mrs. Fletcher cut off our intended path. She briefly turned her attention to Mom. “Hello, Lydia. Long time.”

  “Yes, it has been.” I could tell Mom was wondering what in the hell Mrs. Fletcher did to her face. It looked like she’d timed her Botox injections too close to tonight’s event. The woman’s face was as tight as Mariah Carey’s outfit.

  Although she said it pleasantly, Mom didn’t stick around to make any small talk with Mrs. Fletcher.

  Dad and the boys chewed their way around the room as they followed us through the store. I introduced my parents to Pixie and Asha.

  Next, Brent and I broke away from the clan to talk to Pam for a few minutes. The girl was making the most of her honorary press pass to the event. She was busy interviewing people about what they had on. This was more access to the fashion-obsessed than Pam had ever run into in Teawood. She was like a kid in a candy store, snapping digital shots of people and jotting down details of their fas
hion story. Pam wasn’t interested in hearing people drone on about labels and designers’ names. She was curious about the personal touches they’d added to their look—the vintage pin, the crocheted appliqué on their gloves, their choice of dress color, the way they styled their hair. I couldn’t wait to read her blog the next day.

  “Your gurl Asha introduced herself to me a few minutes ago,” Pam told me breathlessly when she found me by the pasta station. “She read my blog and wants to feature me on Facemag.com!”

  “Are you serious? That’s dope!” I was excited for her.

  “Well, not feature me. It’s more of a few short sentences for a short sidebar about American teens who blog called ‘Local Blogs by Local Girls.’ Anyway, there’s gonna be a map of the U.S., and if you click New Jersey, I’ll be included in their top five blogs to visit for this state.”

  “Hotness.” I was so proud of her.

  “Gotta go.” Pam eyed someone rocking an Afro-punk look and approached them with her pen and pad in hand.

  Finally, Brent and I were alone again.

  “Notice something?” I asked him.

  “You mean that you’re by far the prettiest princess at the ball?” He touched my arm.

  I lowered my eyelids and smiled to keep from gushing. “No, silly,” I told him playfully. “What I meant is that you got past the castle guards without being discovered as a foe of this kingdom.”

  “They saw me,” he said confidently. “But they figured they can’t beat me.” Brent pretended to straighten the tie of his very-retro-Motown-recording-artist suit. He looked so fine. I was staring so hard, I didn’t notice Monica walk up beside me.

  “London.” She tapped me on the shoulder. “We’re going to get started. We need you on stage.”

  Just then my dad came over and started drilling Brent about his family background. I winced at Brent apologetically as I excused myself and followed Monica.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” A radiant Cynthea Bey called everyone’s attention to the makeshift stage. The crowd quieted down and the jazz music was lowered. “Thank you for joining us here tonight.”

  Kelly, Maya, and I stood offstage. We were asked to wait for our names to be called. I got nervous about the idea of going up the stage steps in heels. I barely heard a word Cynthea was saying, but the crowd interrupted her with applause now and then. When she called the judges to the stage, I watched Didier, Monica, and Asha climb up and say a few words.

  Next, Maya was invited onstage. I clapped as she gracefully stepped up and walked across the platform to accept the Bey Modeling Agency certificate. She paused for photos next to the contest judges and then they stepped aside. As Maya turned to step off the stage, Cynthea held on to Maya’s hand.

  “Not so fast. We have a special surprise for you. Along with your certificate, we are happy to give you this check for fifteen hundred dollars.”

  The audience cheered again, and Maya walked away blushing with giddiness. I clapped and let out a woot, pleased that Pixie had gotten the cash prize.

  “At this time we’d like give an honorable mention to our two talented runners-up, London Abrams and Kelly Fletcher,” Cynthea shouted into the mic.

  I studied the platform steps to prepare for my climb. Tripping up there would be a disaster. I looked at the crowd and spotted my dad’s head above everyone else’s. He was taking a picture of me with his digital camera. He put a thumbs-up sign in the air and I smiled.

  The crowd cheered and camera flashes went off. I carefully stepped onstage, and I had a bounce in my step as I walked over to Cynthea’s waiting arms. She went back on the mic when the cheers died down.

  “London and Kelly, as thanks for being a part of this exciting competition, Chic Boutique and Bey Productions are proud to award you each with a check for one thousand dollars.”

  The crowd erupted again. A check for one thousand dollars? This was so unexpected. The only thing swirling in my mind at that moment was Peak Performance Summer Volleyball Camp! I had to fight back the tears of gratitude.

  “We thank all of you contestants for being in this competition. I’m sure I speak on behalf of the judges when I say that it was a pleasure to meet all of you.”

  After the presentations, everyone got off the stage. We were led over to the photo set near the back corner of the store. We took group pictures of the fifteen contestants and photos of the top three contestants with all of the judges.

  I still felt wobbly as I took my solo pictures with Cynthea Bey. This was way more attention and fanfare than I was used to. She was sweet about helping me to loosen up by making small talk and asking me what I planned to do with the prize money.

  “I plan on registering for volleyball summer camp,” I told her, loving the sound of that statement.

  When the session was over, Cynthea thanked me for my patience.

  “I’ll see you on the dance floor.” She flashed me her famous smile. “But for now, I think someone is waiting to spend time with you.”

  She looked behind me and I turned around to see Brent waiting in the wings.

  “Why don’t you come on over here and get in a shot with London?” You couldn’t deny Didier when he boomed out a request that loud.

  “Yeah.” Asha laughed and immediately pulled the both of us onto the set, positioning us in front of the camera stand. “That’s a great idea.”

  Brent and I were so embarrassed, but that didn’t stop him from putting his arm around me in a warm, affectionate pose.

  Gravity was pulling the volleyball down faster than I had anticipated. I timed my jump to meet the ball right over the net. With a quick open-handed swing, I fired the ball over the net with a burning slap. Through the net, I watched the ball blast the floorboards.

  “That was a perfect shot!” Brent sounded too excited, considering no one was on the other side of the net. I was on the court solo. Still, I was flattered by his compliment.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I wasn’t talking about you, L.” Brent didn’t look up from the screen on his fancy camera. “I’m talking about yours truly. I timed that picture perfectly. Check this out.”

  He walked over with the screen angled so that I could get a better look at the action pic. The image of me looked like it was ready for a Nike billboard.

  “Let’s get another one,” he instructed, running back to the sidelines and pointing his lens my way.

  “Nah-uh,” I protested. “That was my fourth one in a row.”

  “You trying to tell me you’re tired?” he teased. “Miss Peak Performance?”

  Brent was proud of me, and he couldn’t stop bringing up my distinction any chance he got. Summer camp had handed out the accolades for its honorable mentions and I got a nod for rocking it out and challenging myself in my sports group.

  I wasn’t the only one busy working on a dream goal these days. Pam got permission from Cynthea Bey to post pictures from the opening night on her blog. Her site traffic peaked again. She hadn’t turned the success of the blog into a successful T-shirt business yet, but other, more journalistic, doors were opening for her. Besides, Pam believed that the fact that her T-shirts weren’t all over the place made it that much more exclusive and cool to own one.

  I was happy for her. And I was so glad she and Jake had been spending a lot of time with Brent and me. There has never been a more ideal double-date situation in history.

  Even though summer camp was an amazing experience, I was eager to get back to playing at school. The heart of the game beats more passionately there, in my opinion. Plus I was starting to appreciate the bond my teammates and I had. Junior year was going to be great because we were going to try to beat our record and make state championships. I thought we had a good chance.

  Brent turned his back and then swiveled around in a quick James Bond move to snap an unexpected picture of me.

  “Oh, I see how you wanna do this.” I balanced the ball between my hip and my hand.

  “I’m glad you do.”
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br />   “But I’m a firm believer of being about it and not just talking about it,” I continued.

  “Nice to hear.”

  “So, why don’t you come and see what it’s like to jump up that high in the air four times in a row.”

  “That ain’t nothin’.” He was showboating as he placed his camera on the freshly shellacked floor and walked over, leaning back. “You’re talking to someone who can dunk a basketball on a bad day, when my temperature is over a hundred and I just got off bed rest.”

  “Okay, rude bwoy,” I said to fan the flames. “Let’s see whatchu got.”

  Brent walked over and stood at the opposite side of the net. We stared at each other through the linked ropes. I tried not to laugh as I held my challenging stare. I couldn’t look at him like I look at my opponents. He was too cute.

  “Ready?” I asked him in the most serious tone I could muster. “I’m gonna spike and you try to block.”

  “Ain’t no thang but a chicken wang,” Brent said, acting like his favorite character from Chappelle’s Show.

  I shook my head.

  “It’s too bad you’re about to get your hands burnt like you just gave the sun a soul-brotha handshake, because this ball is gonna be hot fi-yah.”

  “Stop talkin’ ’bout it and be ’bout it,” he said with widened eyes.

  With that, I threw the ball high in the air, and as it made its way back to me, I jumped up with my arm raised and whipped my palm out to meet it about a foot above the net.

  Brent didn’t time his jump as well as I did. But he was right; he jumped as if he had springs in his sneakers. Unfortunately, he wasn’t as graceful in staying upright. In his hunger to prove how high he could jump, Brent overextended. As soon as he was off the ground, his body angled toward the net. The closeness of the net spooked him, so in an attempt to avoid hitting it, Brent lost his footing and clumsily fell to the ground.