by Coco Simon
“But that’s totally different!” I cried.
“I know, but it’s something to bear in mind. Modeling is hard work,” she repeated.
“I know.” I sighed in exasperation, looking down at my seat-preventing dress.
There was a pause on the other end of the phone.
“Mom?” I asked.
“Yes. So, if you understand all those things, and more, and are still interested, Dad and I consent to having you photographed for an ad—just this once. Okay?”
I couldn’t believe it!
“Yay! Thanks, Mom! Thank you so much! It will be great. Don’t worry!”
“And Dad will be there to supervise.”
“Wait, what?”
“Just have Patricia call him with the timing. Good-bye!” And she hung up.
I stared at the receiver in shock. My dad was coming to The Special Day? To supervise me?
OMG!
At twelve I took off the Chinese dress with relief and went to a Mexican fast-food restaurant in the food court to grab a quick bite of lunch. After I ate my burrito, I still had twenty minutes of my hour break time left, so I strolled to the bookstore and went to the beauty section. They had books on modeling there, and I wanted to flip through one or two before I got back to the store.
I had to think about the whole modeling thing in a new way now.
Before, it had been the one lucky occasion when I’d modeled for Romaine. Then, when Mona had asked me back, it had seemed like a fun way to earn money. Since my family is perpetually short on cash (especially me), I always like the opportunity to make a little more. I’m not a future CEO or anything like Alexis, but I do have a little neighborhood dog-walking business, and the Cupcake Club, of course, and lately, the trunk-show modeling. It’s a nice, small, steady stream of income, but it’s not life-changing money. It just means I can eat at the food court at the mall instead of bringing a P-B-and-J sandwich from home, for example.
But I knew that being in ads could actually earn you some real money. Not just eight or ten dollars an hour.
I selected a book called World Models, and I flipped through it. It showed models in their home towns (and cities and villages), dressed in wild fashion couture that made them look really out of place, like freaks. I guess that was the point. I sighed and replaced it and then selected another.
This one was called American Beauties. It was organized by state, and I flipped through Alaska (a surprising number of models come from there, as it turns out) and on to Arizona, California, and Connecticut before I realized most of these models were just a little bit older than me (sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen years old) or had started out in the business as kids, like me (or even younger, I guess). In the interviews alongside the big photos, the models talked about how they were discovered. You can’t believe how many of them were discovered at their local mall!
Intrigued, I looked around to see if there were any modeling scouts nearby, but everyone seemed pretty engrossed in their books. I rifled through the pages one last time and was about to shut the book when a highlighted quote in bright orange type from a Native American model (from Arizona) jumped out at me. It said, “Just don’t let them steal your soul.”
Okaaay! I thought. Now that’s another creepy thing to think about! I shut the book and reshelved it, then stood up to head back to work. My friends would be there soon, and I was looking forward to seeing them. My dad would be there after that, and I was not looking forward to seeing him. As I walked back to the shop, I played out different scenarios in my mind of my dad at The Special Day. In one, he was like a bull in a china shop, knocking into things and spilling tea on the sofa and generally embarrassing me. In another, he was his usual fun self, chatting everyone up and asking his or her life stories and generally embarrassing me. In yet another, he was falling asleep on the sofa and snoring, like he does in front of college football games on TV, and generally embarrassing me. Are you getting the idea here? I knew embarrassment was in store for me no matter what. Back at the store I ran to the ladies’ room to wash my hands (clean hands are a must at a bridal salon—most of the employees wear white gloves) and to make sure my face didn’t have random flecks of salsa still on it.
Then I found Patricia and confirmed the lineup of my next round of dresses, and I went to change.
“Yoo-hoo!” I heard as I pulled the tulip-sleeved gown back over my head. It was Alexis!
“In here! Let me just get this dress on and you can come in. Was Mona surprised about the cupcakes?” I asked through the closed door.
“Yeah. I told her they were on the house if she’d let us put out our cards, and she said great. Hey, it’s packed out there, by the way. If we don’t get at least one job out of this, I’ll be shocked,” Alexis said happily.
I smiled. Alexis is happiest when growing a business.
“Okay, ready! Come in! And you can tie me,” I called. Patricia was so busy, Alexis could easily do the styling work for me.
“Wow! Your hair really looks amazing!” said Alexis as she entered the changing room.
After looking at myself in the mirror all day, I had forgotten about the curls. “Thanks!” I said, patting my hair. “Will you tie me, please?”
Alexis kept staring at me in the mirror as she deftly tied the bow. “Really, I can’t get over it. It’s like you’re a different person,” she said. “You look like a model!”
“I am!” I laughed. “And guess what?” I said, spinning around to face Alexis. “Mona asked me if she could put me in an ad in the paper, and my parents said yes! We’re having a photo shoot later today with a professional photographer, who sounds cuckoo, by the way!”
Alexis’s jaw dropped. “OMG. Do you know how much money you can make doing that?”
I laughed again. “Leave it to you, Miss CEO, to think of the money.”
Alexis furrowed her brow. “Well, what else would you think of? It’s not like it’s fun.”
“I think it will be. I think the photo shoot will be really glamorous, and I think it will be unbelievable to have a few people see my photo in the paper.”
“I don’t know. . . . But, anyway, it’s great news and I’m so happy for you!” said Alexis, and she grabbed me in a big hug. “I know a supermodel!”
“The dress!”
“Oops. Sorry. I guess this dress wasn’t made to withstand BFFs,” she said with a giggle.
“I guess not. . . . ” I giggled too. “Hey, are the others here?”
“Yeah, come on. They won’t believe your hair when they see it. I can’t wait!” Alexis grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the dressing room, through the throngs of women in the store, searching for our friends.
Along the way, a couple of ladies noticed my dress, “Ooh, isn’t that exquisite?” said one.
And “That is a gorgeous dress!” said another.
“Alexis!” I protested. They were the people I was meant to be talking to right now. They were the potential clients, and I was there to sell. But Alexis was whisking me right past them. “Alexis! Stop!” I cried, finally yanking back my hand.
She turned around, and her smile faded. “What?” she asked, seeing my worried face.
“I’m working. And you just dragged me past two women who were interested in my dress. You can’t do that. I have to go back there and tell them about it.”
Alexis looked perplexed. “Oh. Right. Okay.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t want to see the others; it’s just that Mona is paying me to do this. Can you just find Mia and Katie and bring them to me instead?” I felt bossy and horrible, killing Alexis’s enthusiasm like that. Guilt settled heavily in the pit of my stomach.
“Okay,” said Alexis again. Then she smiled. “You go back, and I’ll come find you when I get the others.” If anyone got the fact that I was working and making money, it was Alexis.
I turned back to find the interested women. Pasting a gracious smile on my face, I walked back very slowly, making eye contac
t with everyone, just as Patricia and Mona had taught me at my first trunk show. That’s one of the ways people know you’re an employee, and then they feel you’re approachable and they can ask you questions about your dress. Part of my job is to know the designer’s name, the dress’s style name, and the price of each and every dress I wear. Just enough info so that the clients can follow up with Mona for more specifics, like sizing and lead time (that’s how long it takes to have the dress made).
I found the first woman standing with her friend, and I began chatting with them, telling them all about the dress. They loved it and were pretty impressed by all the information I had. (I couldn’t resist throwing in the term “tulip sleeve.” What can I say?) Then I moved on to the other interested woman and let her look at the seams and feel the fabric and generally judge the quality of the dress, which she found “impeccable.” Not that I was surprised. All the Jaden Sacks dresses are impeccable, which made it fun to wear them and have clients be impressed.
When she’d finished, I turned and went looking for someone else to show the dress to. But suddenly the crowd parted, and Katie and Mia and Alexis appeared. I was happy to see them, even if I was self-conscious about socializing on the job. Katie and Mia squealed about my hair and the news about the photo shoot, and Katie said, “Oh, Emma, I’m so jealous! I can’t believe you’re a model and you’re going to be in the paper. You’re famous! You’re like Maple Grove’s next Romaine Ford!”
I had to really laugh at that one. “Romaine Ford is a talented dancer, singer, and actress, Katie. I am just a clothes hanger!”
“It’s a big deal!” said Mia, whose mom is a fashion stylist. “I’ve been to modeling shoots in the city with my mom lots of times, and let me tell you, it is no picnic. Those hot lights, the cranky photographers, the uncomfortable clothes with pins poking you, the competitive models who all want your spot. . . . It is a J-O-B, for real!”
“Yeah,” I agreed, but I could feel my brow furrowing as it always does when I’m nervous. Well, how bad could one photo shoot be, anyway?
Mia’s mom appeared then. “Oh, Emma, you look lovely, mi amor!”
I smiled. “Thanks, Mrs. Valdes.”
“I love that dress, and I simply adore your hair like that!”
“Mom, Emma’s going to be in a print ad for the store. Isn’t that great?” said Mia.
“Wow, that’s spectacular! I can’t wait to see it! I hope they’re paying you well. It’s hard work,” she said, leaning in so no one else could hear.
I grinned. “That’s what I hear.”
She rolled her eyes. Then she said, “All right, chicas, Emma is working, so we’d better be running along now. Good-bye, darling. Have a great time. I can’t wait to see your ad!” Mrs. Valdes blew me a kiss, and they left.
I watched them walk away until the crowd swallowed them, and I couldn’t help but wonder where they were all going and what they were going to do. It would be fun to just put on jeans and hang out with them. Maybe they’d shop around the mall for a while; Mrs. Valdes is the best mom to go to the mall with, because she loves clothing and loves to shop (unlike my mom). She has an eye for the inexpensive item that can really tie everything together. Or maybe they’d head to the movies and then the new milkshake place, and there would be cute boys there to flirt with. I felt lonely and left out and suddenly wished I was going with them. And yet I had two more hours of modeling and then the shoot.
“Emma!” Patricia was calling me, and I snapped to. “Time to put on the next look, please!”
“Right,” I said, and I hurried back to the changing room alone.
CHAPTER 3
Makeup Session
At least my father looked good when he showed up. He is a good-looking guy—tall, burly, and athletic, with bright blue eyes, dark hair, and a smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle up in a cute way. Today he had changed out of his customary Saturday T-shirt–and-shorts sports attire (he plays soccer in an adult rec league and coaches at least one of my brothers’ sports teams each season), and he was wearing what I think of as his out-to-Sunday-dinner attire: brown cords, loafers, and a striped button-down shirt under a navy blue zip-neck sweater. He had the Sunday paper under his arm (we get most of it delivered with the Saturday paper; don’t ask!), and he looked ready to settle in for the rest of the day.
Mona was impressed, I could tell, and this made me relax a little. Maybe he wouldn’t embarrass me in some awful unpredictable way. She fussed over him and brought him a cup of coffee and a plate of mini cupcakes and then told him she and her staff were at his beck and call and not to hesitate if he needed anything.
“I can see why you like coming here!” he said to me with a laugh. “I’m thinking of spending every Saturday here from now on!”
“Dad, please!”
“Just kidding, angel. How was your morning?”
He had been surprised when he arrived and saw my hair, because he hadn’t seen it earlier. When he recovered from the surprise, he told me how pretty it looked, even if it was a little done up for the jeans and turtleneck I had changed back into by then.
As we waited, a tiny, skinny man in a black leather jacket and black leather jeans came to the door. He had a faux hawk of jet-black hair, and big black combat boots on. I could see my dad’s radar go up, and he sat up a little straighter, alert. The guy looked like trouble, and suddenly, I was really glad my dad was there.
But then Mona said, “Oh, here’s Joachim! Late as usual!”
I know my jaw dropped, and I turned to my dad in shock. “That’s the photographer,” I whispered breathlessly.
“That scary-looking little dude?” My dad shook his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing and what he was seeing. “But where is his . . . ”
Suddenly, three other people struggled into view, carrying all sorts of metal strongboxes and lights and cables. My dad and I looked at each other again, and we smiled. “I guess that answers your question, right?” I said.
To see the next half hour unfold was mesmerizing. Mona was bossing Joachim and his team around, cautioning them not to touch anything, not to stain anything, to be careful of their equipment marking anything. And Joachim was pushing back, asking where things would go otherwise and how could he work like this, and at the same time barking orders at his staff. It was like a standoff. I wondered who would win and at the same time, I fervently hoped I wouldn’t be the biggest loser of the day. If they treated one another like this under these circumstances, I could only imagine where I’d fall in the pecking order!
My dad settled in with his newspaper (Mona had an assistant drape a white sheet over the sofa, so the newsprint didn’t stain it; how that could happen, I don’t know) and he seemed happy as a clam, but I was growing more and more nervous by the minute. All this lighting? All this equipment? Computers? Backdrops on rolls? All for one photo of me, a girl who had never posed professionally before? I kept gulping as each new component was put into place.
Finally, Patricia and one of Joachim’s assistants, a goth-looking girl who was also all in black, came to get me ready. Patricia introduced me to Serena and said Serena’d spruce up my hair and do my makeup.
My dad, who had been totally checked out, suddenly came alive from behind his paper.
“No makeup,” he said.
Patricia and Serena paused and looked at each other. “Excuse me?” Patricia asked politely.
My dad lowered his paper and looked at them from over his reading glasses. “No makeup. I don’t want you to glam her up and have her looking like an adult. She’s still a child.”
Patricia smiled. “Mr. Taylor, I promise you that the kind of makeup we are considering will be very sparingly applied and only used to enhance Emma’s natural beauty. She will be totally recognizable as your daughter.”
Serena spoke up, much more polite than I would have expected a goth to be. “It’s just that with the lighting and with the transition from a computer image to the printed page, certa
in features tend to wash out; we need to prevent that from happening. We can do it on the front end with some inexpensive makeup or on the back end with expensive retouching in the studio. You’ll see her before we shoot. And we’ll let you see the pictures, and then you’ll understand.”
My father mulled this over. “I promised her mother no makeup. Let’s see how she looks when she comes back out, and we’ll make any adjustments if we need to, okay?”
I rolled my eyes, mortified by how clueless my father was, and followed Serena and Patricia to the changing room. Well, at least he didn’t say no.
Inside, an entire makeup bench had been set up, with two high stools facing each other and very bright lighting. There was a makeup box—one of the black strongboxes I’d seen the team carrying in—opened on the table and a whole miniflight of “stairs” was expanded out of it, each with a dozen makeup colors on it. There were makeup brushes and hairspray bottles, cotton balls, a hairdryer, nail polish—everything you could think of.
“Now, dress first, do you think, or makeup?” asked Patricia.
“Makeup,” said Serena definitively.
She gestured to the chair, and I clambered aboard. It was high, and my legs dangled frantically until I found a perch to settle them on.
Serena looked at me very closely, tilting her head this way and that, adjusting the light, then touching my chin and tipping it here and there. It was kind of weird, like I wasn’t even a person but just a face with nothing behind it.
She pulled away and squinted at me, then she said, “Eyes.” And with that, she got to work.
I glanced at Patricia, who was standing a little behind Serena, watching with a very serious look on her face. She smiled encouragingly at me, but her face instantly resumed its serious look, which wasn’t exactly comforting. I felt like I was being operated on.
“Close,” commanded Serena, and I closed my eyes. This part was easy, so far, if a little scary.
I felt Serena wiping something wet on my eyelids, and my eyes started to flutter. Serena sighed and stopped. I opened my eyes and found her staring at me with a kind of an annoyed look on her face.
