by Eric Walters
Oliver appeared in the doorway of my bedroom. He was wearing a bathing suit.
“It’s done,” he said.
“All of it? Even the dishwasher?”
“I emptied it and then rinsed out everything, even the little compartments, and got rid of the rest of the liquid soap.”
“How did you get rid of the suds?”
“They sort of popped, and then I used a bucket and mop. Do you want to check?”
“Not me. I’m not your mother.”
“But I wanted you to see how amazing the kitchen looks,” he said.
“I imagine being free of three feet of suds would make it look pretty good.”
“It’s more than that. The floor and cupboards are sparkling. It was like I washed the floor as well as did the dishes!” he said. “Plus there’s one other bonus.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I’m so squeaky clean I don’t need to take a bath tonight. The whole thing worked out to be like a win-win-win situation.”
“Maybe you should do that every day.”
He shook his head. “Once was enough. And Soph, I’m sorry.”
“Mistakes happen.”
“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have expected you to fix it.”
“It’s not just you,” I said. “I expected me to fix it. I guess in some ways this was a new different for both of us.”
DAY 49
The techno-pop music blared as the models cut through the bright lights and strobes, parading along the runway. We were a dozen rows back. It was pretty amazing in a bizarre way. Never had I see so many women who were so thin, so strangely dressed and so incredibly tall. I was almost five ten, but compared to them—most in super-high heels—I would have been dwarfed.
They strutted the runway, shoulders back, stick thin, and they all had the same pained expression. I suspected that look might have something to do with being really, really hungry, mixed with the pain caused by being forced into those shoes. Why did fashion models all have to be painfully thin?
“So this is new, huh?” Ella yelled over the music.
“Different than anything I’ve ever seen before.”
This had been an easy different. It was nice to be the watcher instead of the person being watched. I’d seen fashion shows on TV, but being here in person was completely different.
“Come on,” Ella said as she got to her feet.
We did a sideways shuffle along the row. It wasn’t just the people on the runway who looked fashionable or strange. This was one well-appointed and oddly dressed audience. They were all done up, and while some people were just elegantly or expensively dressed, more were dressed in bizarre ways. Theirs were colorful, unique, strange fashions that would have caused people to turn and gawk if they were on the streets. Here they hardly got a backward glance.
Along with the strange clothing some of them wore makeup that would have scared a clown or shamed a goth and had hairstyles that made my previous purple seem pedestrian at best. Buzzed off, spiked up, extensions that went below the waist or piled higher than Marge Simpson would ever dream of. It had been as much fun watching the people in the lobby before the show as it was watching the show itself.
Part of me felt a little self-conscious about the way I was dressed. Of course Ella hadn’t told me what we were doing, so I’d worn a pair of Old Navy jeans today. She was dressed a lot better, and if she’d told me, I could have put on a dress, at least, and some more makeup. I guess she was just doing the usual not-telling-me-to-not-worry-me thing. Or she was deliberately trying to be better dressed than me.
Strangely, my unfashionable clothes and nearly complete lack of makeup were almost a fashion statement in themselves, and Ella pointed out that we’d gotten more attention than some of the more bizarrely dressed. Here, I guess, being dressed so normally made us bizarrely dressed.
Ella stopped in front of a door with a sign saying Backstage Access—No Admission to General Public in big letters. A large man wearing a dark suit, darker sunglasses and an even darker expression stood at the door. His arms were crossed, and he looked as angry as the models. Ella leaned in close and started talking to him. I couldn’t hear her above the music.
He smiled, nodded his head, stepped aside and opened the door, gesturing for her to enter. She motioned for me to follow.
“Thanks,” I mumbled as I passed the man. He closed the door behind us, and it took a few steps for my eyes to adjust to the darkness in the narrow corridor.
“Ella, where are we going?”
“The dressing room. You really don’t think you can be on the runway dressed in your jeans, do you?”
“The runway? I’m walking the runway?”
“If you haven’t noticed, nobody walks the runway. You’ll be strutting the runway.”
I was stunned.
A stream of very tall, very skinny models bumped their way through the corridor, which probably connected the stage to the change room. For all the order out there, there was a sense of chaos here as they pushed past each other.
We entered a big room. There were dozens of models in various stages of undress, with other people helping them get in or out of their things. I felt like I wasn’t just out of place, but that I was intruding. No, worse than that. It was like we were uninvited guests in the middle of a room filled with half-dressed strangers. I didn’t know where to look or not look.
“You must be Sophie!” a woman called out as she rushed over.
“This is her,” Ella said.
The woman took me by the hand, dragged me away and sat me down on a stool beside a dressing table.
“You’re huge!” she exclaimed.
“I’m only five ten.”
“I didn’t mean tall, I meant big. What size are you?”
“I’m a six,” I answered.
“Even worse than I thought. Nobody here is more than a zero.”
“If you were a zero, wouldn’t that mean you didn’t exist, that you were invisible?” Ella asked.
The woman ignored Ella’s comment as she scrambled around, grabbing clothing. I assumed she was looking for something “huge” enough to fit me. She turned back to me. “Why are you still wearing clothes?”
Without asking my permission, she started to remove my top, pulling it up and over my head. I was so shocked that I didn’t even think to struggle.
“Shoes and jeans. Get them off, right now!” she commanded.
I hesitated, and she yelled at me. “Now!”
I responded, kicking them off and then standing there in just my bra and panties. I would have felt embarrassed if I wasn’t standing in a room full of women who were in various states of dress and undress. It was like being in the change room in gym class except that instead of sweats and T-shirts and sneakers, they were in designer outfits and heels.
I heard a ripping sound and turned my head. “Thank goodness for seam rippers!” the woman said. She handed me the dress she’d just ripped apart. It was a little black outfit.
“Don’t just look at it, put it on!”
I pulled it over my head and tugged it down. Despite the ripped-out seam, it still hardly fit, clinging to me like a second skin.
I looked at Ella. “How is this going to work? It’s all ripped and—”
“Put this on over top,” the woman said. She handed me a golden sweater. “The colors work, and the sweater will cover most of the rip. Go and get shoes,” she ordered, gesturing to the side. “Black. The higher the heel, the better. It will create the illusion that you’re thin.”
Ella walked with me to the rack. It was taller than me and filled with shoes.
“Just how did you arrange this?” I asked.
“You have five followers in the fashion industry, including Donna Venture.”
“Who’s that?”
“Come on, you have to know who she is. She’s one of the big
gest designers in the country. That dress that got ripped, the one you’re wearing, is one of her creations. It’s probably worth twenty-five hundred dollars.”
“My whole wardrobe isn’t worth that much,” I said.
“No surprise there,” the stylist said as she appeared out of nowhere. She was holding a pair of gold heels—very high heels. “I decided gold was better. Put them on.”
She turned and rushed away.
I slipped into the heels. They were the right size, even if they weren’t the right height. I now towered over Ella, teetering and threatening to tumble over.
“You, over here!” a woman yelled.
I turned and pointed at myself, and she nodded.
I walked in a wobbly way toward her. She gestured to the chair in front of her. I was just grateful to sit down before I fell down.
“Who did your makeup?” she demanded.
“Nobody…me, I guess.”
“You shouldn’t do that anymore. At least there isn’t much work to undo. Thank goodness most people have no idea how to apply makeup, or there wouldn’t be work for professional makeup artists.”
She started applying makeup. I assumed she was doing to me what would match the rest of the models. That would mean angry black swaths on my eyes and lips and dark patches on my cheeks. “Normally, your makeup would have been applied before the clothing went on,” she said.
“Hair, we need emergency hair over here!” the stylist yelled as she returned.
Almost instantly two women were on top of me, pulling and pushing and pinning my hair. I was about to say something when I was assaulted by a rainstorm of hairspray, and I closed my eyes and mouth instead.
“That’s as good as we’re going to get,” the dresser said. She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me up to my feet. “Get into the line.”
“Where’s the line?” I asked.
The stylist rushed away without answering, taking the two hair stylists and the makeup artist with her.
Ella shrugged. “Just follow the other models.”
There was a line of models bumping by each other in both directions along the narrow corridor. Those moving in one direction were being attended by dressers, who were making last-minute adjustments to their outfits or hair as they moved. Those going the other way were already peeling off layers of clothing. Most of the models were female, but an occasional male was interspersed among them. Nobody seemed embarrassed by being semi-naked. Even in school change rooms, I was never that comfortable.
“So now you know how I feel,” Ella said.
“What do you mean?”
“Compared to them, you’re the short, chunky one.”
I was going to say something about how neither of us was short and chunky, but in this strange, alternate universe we were both. Despite my height and heels, the models were almost all taller than me, and there was no question that they were much, much thinner. At best I felt like a rather plump ostrich among giraffes. Actually, that wasn’t right, because I was pretty sure the model in front of me was dressed in ostrich feathers, so there was at least one other ostrich—a very, very tall ostrich with an angry expression.
“I’m going out front now,” Ella said.
“Couldn’t you stay with me?” I begged, suddenly feeling very alone in a room filled with people.
“I need to be out there to take pictures. Just remember, throw your shoulders back, look like you’re either angry or constipated, and you’ll fit right in.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“Just think of yourself as the plus-sized model.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t meant to be funny. Maybe this different will give you some insights into how the rest of the world sees you, or maybe how it sees me. Some of us never get to be the tall, thin one.”
“Ella, that’s not how—” Before I could finish, Ella had turned and walked away, leaving me in the line. I was almost more shocked by what Ella had said than anything that was happening around me. She had sounded so, well, angry—and it was like she was angry at me. That couldn’t be, could it? It didn’t matter, not right now. I had to focus on what I was doing, or I was going to fall flat on my face. Who wore heels this high anyway?
The line slowly bumped forward, and I wobbled along with it. In front of us was a heavy dark curtain. That had to be the curtain that led to the runway. Oh my goodness. I’d have rather walked along a real runway, dodging planes, than do this.
The model directly in front of me turned around. “You’ll do fine.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve been following your blog,” she said.
“You have?”
“You’ve done some pretty cool things.”
“My friend Ella arranged them. She arranged this.”
“Donna told us. You’re lucky to have a friend like that.”
“I am.” She was right, and I had to remember that. Ella was putting in an amazing amount of work, and she was doing it for me.
“Don’t worry,” the model said. “Just walk behind me. Ignore the crowd and the photographers. Act like they don’t even exist. Focus on the runway. And the most important thing, if you’re going to trip, do it on the way off the stage instead of on the way on.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Believe me, I’ve done it more than once. The longer the legs and the higher the heel, the more potential to trip. If you do fall, just jump up and continue moving forward like nothing happened.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Tell you what. If you trip, I’ll trip too. We’ll make it look like performance art.” She gave me a squeeze on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.”
“Thanks for that even more.”
The techno-pop music got louder as we got closer to the stage. Finally we came up to the curtain, and my new friend got a signal and disappeared through the curtain. I stepped forward. I was next. I felt sweat dripping down my sides—a true flop sweat—and wondered if they’d charge me for dry-cleaning the dress.
“Next,” the man at the curtain said.
He pulled the curtain aside, and I froze. I was instantly assaulted by bright lights and blaring sound.
“Go,” he said and gave me a little push.
I stumbled, staggered, took a deep breath and started to walk. The sounds and sights were much more intense out here. I felt like I was being assaulted, almost slapped in the face. The music blasted, the spotlights were brilliantly bright, and dozens of flashes started to go off.
I took a few steps, teetering on my heels, desperately trying not to tumble over. I didn’t need to think about my expression. Desperation and scared probably came off as angry and hungry.
Up ahead was my new friend, strutting. I tried to match her pace and mimic her walking. As I went down one side of the runway I passed the models coming back the other way. They looked straight ahead. No eye contact with either me or the audience. I tried not to think about how the audience was reacting as they saw me, but it must have been clear to everyone that I didn’t belong there. It was like that game, Which of these things doesn’t belong?
My new friend made the turn and started on her way back. She actually looked at me, smiled and reached out a hand.
“Work it, girl!” she said as she reached out, and we exchanged a low five as we passed each other.
I got to the end of the runway. I kept my pose for a few seconds and gave them my best stink-face look. I did a slight twirl and headed back the other way.
Deliberately, throwing my shoulders back, strutting, I couldn’t help myself. I started smiling, then laughing, then waving at the audience, and then, in six-inch stiletto heels, I started skipping. There was a roar from the audience and an explosion of flashes, then cheering as I stumbled, almost falling off the runway. I was positive I heard Ella scream out. I got to the end of the ru
nway and pushed through the curtain to backstage—safety.
I’d done it! I’d made it! I’d survived! My new friend grabbed me and gave me a big, big hug.
“You did it, girl! You did it!”
A couple of the other models offered congratulations.
“We don’t have time for this!” It was my stylist. “Hurry up. That was only your first outfit.”
“My first! You’re kidding! I have to go out there again?”
She smiled. “Just putting you on. Go and get dressed. Somehow we’ll have to stagger through the rest of the show without you.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure.”
I started to walk away.
“And dear,” she said. I stopped and turned back.
“You really are a beautiful young girl. How about in the future you leave Old Navy clothes to old sailors? You can do better than what you wear. You are better.”
DAY 50
Today I rode a horse, a camel and an elephant. And I drove a race car and a fire engine. Of course, they were all made of plastic and metal and were in the mall. Today my different was so simple. All I did was ride the kiddie rides. Something I hadn’t done since I was probably five years old.
Ella stood there taking pictures as I bounced up and down or the wheels spun around or the engine roared. At least the animals were big enough—although my legs almost did touch the ground on the horse. With the race car I had to stuff myself inside, and it made a roaring sound, and the fire engine had a bell. At Ella’s insistence I rang it repeatedly as people walked by. Little kids pointed and laughed. Some adults smiled or pointed, and others very pointedly tried to look away and pretend there wasn’t a teenage girl riding the kiddie rides in the mall. Or they simply looked at me like I was crazy or with a level of disgust. I liked the ones who smiled. I wondered if it had been me six weeks ago watching somebody do this, how would I have reacted? I don’t like to admit it, but I think I would have been one of the people looking disgusted.
