“She’s only sixteen!” Dad boomed out of nowhere, scaring the crap out of all of us. “She doesn’t do anything adult!”
Momma said, “Howard—it is Howard, right? We’ll only send her out for whatever castings are appropriate for her age and her look. Allee doesn’t have to do anything she’s not comfortable with.”
“What’s a comp?” I asked.
Momma pointed to the model cards on the walls. “Those are composite cards. It’s what you take to show clients, like your business card.”
A phone buzzed on the table, and the receptionist’s voice said, “Dimitri, Odile on three. Says it’s an emergency.”
What could possibly be an emergency in modeling? He rattled off what could only be Greek cursing, and then he stood up and kissed me on both cheeks! Then he walked out so fast that by the time I said “Bye,” he was already gone. My mother craned her neck to catch a glimpse of him before the door closed. Gross. She was old enough to be his mother.
“So how soon can this young lady move down here?” Momma asked my parents. “We have a casting for Roxy clothing next week and she’d be perfect for it. It’s mid-January. We’re hitting the peak of season now. We can’t wait too much longer to try her out. The season starts winding down in late April. By late spring, it’s dead around here.”
“I can be here as soon as you want,” I said in my new perky way.
“Where is the model apartment?” Dad asked, his forehead scrunching up with worry. He and Mom exchanged glances.
“On Euclid, just four blocks from here. Her rent will just get deducted from her earnings. There are models staying there now.”
“Allee’s never left home, not even for sleepaway camp,” my mother said. “Her sister either. We like our kids close to home.”
Momma patted her hand, obviously sensing the overprotective vibe. “Trust me, folks, she’ll be in good hands. These girls are like my own kids. They don’t call me Momma for nothing, you know.”
The next parts of their conversation faded in and out. The thought of living with models filled me with panic. They were probably older than me and really sophisticated. Or super-skinny and snobby. Yeah, they were all gonna be beautiful girly-girls with zero IQ who were really into fashion and who wouldn’t get me at all.
chapter 6
This was happening really fast. I was feeling the need to do some deep breathing and download all this. I was also feeling the need to pee, so I excused myself and used the ladies’ room. After I was done, I walked out and heard a man with a Cuban accent calling, “Yoo-hoo, girlfriend. Excuse me.” I kept walking. There was nothing more mortifying than thinking someone was calling you when it was someone else they wanted. Now the voice was right behind me. “Hello, girl with a pearl earring.”
I turned around and looked down at a guy wearing a T-shirt that said PLEASE DON’T FEED THE MODELS. He almost bumped into me. All ninety-eight pounds of him. “You dropped this.” He handed me my earring. “It just fell off. Ooh, look, there’s the back.” He plucked the tiny back off the floor and handed it to me.
“Omigod, thank you. Someone gave them to me. She’d kill me if I lost them.”
“I know what you mean. I lost my friend’s leather pants once and he never spoke to me again.”
“How did you lose your pants?”
“Listen, if I had a buck for every time someone asked me that…”
I liked this little guy. “I’m Allee,” I said, holding out my hand.
“Miguel.” He shook my hand with his delicate one. He looked about my age. “I’m a junior booker, Dimitri’s assistant, but my real job description is just to keep him calm. That’s it, that’s my whole job. So was Monique hard on you up there?” I hesitated, not sure what I should say. “I mean was she tough on you? She’s been so crabby lately. Issa Lopez left Monique last week and signed with Irene Marie. Monique and Momma are livid. Issa left a hole in the board, but you’re exactly her type. Brynn’s her type too, but she’s cooled off some. You, though, you’re going to be hot. Trust me, they need you.”
What kind of cryptic Da Vinci Code language was this fast-talking Miguel speaking? It wasn’t Spanish or English, and I definitely didn’t comprendo. “Who’s Irene Marie?”
“Who’s Irene Marie? Who’s Irene Marie?” He fake-gasped for air. Then he calmed down. “Okay, here’s the dealio. Irene’s got an agency a few blocks away. One of our best girls left Monique and went to Irene. And Monique hates it when another agency gets our talent. It’s a diva vs. diva thing, happens all the time in South Beach.” He pronounced it “South Bitch.” “But she’s very worked up about you, girlfriend. That’s why she made Dimitri go meet you. Listen, can you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Can you walk on my back?”
“Walk on your what?”
“My back. It’ll only take a minute.” He dropped to the floor and lay on his stomach. “Go on. Don’t be shy. Just take off your shoes.” I glanced around. I could see the booking room and they could see me, but nobody was paying any attention. Like this was perfectly normal around here. So I kicked off my flip-flops and stepped on him.
I thought I was going to paralyze him. “Are you sure this isn’t hurting you?”
“No, it’s good. Now walk. Move your feet.” I took baby steps. He was all bones. My weight was going to crush him. “Aaahh, that’s it.” I looked out into the booking room. One of the bookers was shouting, “You said this was for catalog only! There are billboards all over Costa Rica with her face. You must pay!” The pregnant booker was weighing a woman on a scale. They were talking quietly but I overheard, “They didn’t book you because they were afraid you wouldn’t fit into the clothes. That should be a red flag to you that you need to lose weight.” Another voice, a man this time, called out, “Hey, Tina, they want advertorial. What’s the rate for him?”
Crack. Oh no. There goes his spine. I froze, waiting. “Ay, Dios mio,” he moaned, letting out a long sigh. “Thank you. You’re fantabulous.”
Keira hurried past us, bumping into me and stepping over him. “Bloody hell, Miguel, could you possibly do this somewhere else?”
Miguel scrambled to his feet and curved his hands out like claws, hissing like a cat. “Be careful of that Kate,” he whispered to me. “She spies on all of us, and she’s the worst gossip. And she’s loca. Actually believes she looks like Keira Knightley, can you believe that?”
“That’s crazy.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Miguel!” Dimitri’s voice rang out. “Where the devil are you?”
“Screw him,” Miguel whispered. “I’m on break. I’ll walk you to the conference room.”
When we got there my mother was saying, “…were hoping you could show her how to present herself better, you know, use makeup, do her hair.”
“Oh, we will. And she’ll need to take an on-camera workshop, get some training. Hi, Miguel. Listen, could you show Allee the apartment? I just need to go over some details on the contract with the Rosens. We’ll meet you two there.”
My parents were looking at the contract already.
Omigod.
The apartment building looked like a birthday cake. It was square and stucco, with a lavender and yellow paint job, wrought-iron balconies, and one of those white fountains next to the entrance, the kind with a little kid peeing. Miguel opened the front door to a small foyer with terra-cotta tiles and a staircase. “You guys are downstairs, number three.” He knocked and rang the bell, but there was no answer. “Anybody home?” He turned the doorknob and shoved it open. “No way, they left it open? If Monique finds out, she’ll rip them a new one.”
We walked in. It smelled like stale cigarette smoke and something else, like lentils or hay. On the left, there was a kitchenette and just past it, an open door, but I couldn’t see what was inside from where I was standing. On the right, there was a rectangular living room that must have doubled as a bedroom because I saw bunk beds. Along one wall of the rectangle,
there was a turquoise futon, a matching beanbag, and a white coffee table, and along the opposite wall, there was a TV and two bunk beds, one right after the other, like train cars. Behind that, there was a closed door with a full-length mirror attached to it. The far end of the room had a white chest of drawers and a window. The shades were closed, but in the dim light I could see plastic cups, magazines, and an over-flowing ashtray on the coffee table. Shoes were scattered all over the floor. Most of the beds looked slept in, with hangers of clothes suspended from the ends of each top bunk.
How was I going to live here? I couldn’t think or relax when there was a mess like this. It was like noise to me. Miguel opened the shades. “Most of them are working or out on castings, probably. I know Claudette is out of town. She gets back in a few weeks. You’ll have that top bunk, the one that’s empty, on top of Summer.”
“How many girls live here?” I asked.
“Right now? Five. But sometimes girls stay here for a few days if we have an important casting for them or a job. We always have an extra bed or two.”
“Who’s there?” a girl’s voice called from the room next to the kitchen, the one with the open door. I followed Miguel into it. Sitting on the floor between two more bunk beds were two blond women with porcelain skin and the longest legs I’d ever seen. One had high, sharp cheekbones and short hair. The other had long, curly hair, a round face, and big Betty Boop eyes. They were folding laundry and watching SpongeBob SquarePants on a TV suspended from the ceiling. “Hi, Miguel,” they said together. Neither one was wearing a drop of makeup, and they were incredible-looking. They were both so impossibly beautiful, I had to force myself not to stare.
“Hey, you guys. Irina, Vlada, this is Allee. She’s new and she’ll be moving in soon.” They both said hi and went back to their laundry. No “where are you from,” no “nice to meet you,” nothing. We walked back out to the living room and Miguel said, “They’re from one of the stans.”
“The stans?”
“You know, Kazakhstan, Ubikkistan, Pakistan, whatev.”
“We are from Lithuania, you barnacle head!” one of them shouted. Then I heard them speaking what I guessed was Lithuanian. They sounded pissed.
“They learned English from watching American cartoons,” Miguel said, lowering his voice. “Monique thought they’d be a great investment, but she can’t get them arrested. Truth. Come here.” He took me into the kitchenette. “Now whatever you do, don’t turn on the oven.” He opened the oven door with a flourish to show me folded T-shirts and shorts stacked on the oven racks. “None of them cook, so they just use this as a chest of drawers. And there’s more where that came from.” Miguel flipped open the cabinets. All of them were stacked with tanks, sweats, belts, purses, and lots of hair clips and bandannas and things that sparkled.
This place was bursting at the seams with clothes. A lump of fear was forming inside my stomach. I was so apparel-challenged. I didn’t have a fraction of what these girls had. They’d probably laugh at my measly wardrobe. Everything they had looked expensive and designer-ish. My sister dropped designer names constantly, but like most people in Comet, I didn’t know a Gucci from a Pucci. Maybe she could help me out and lend me some of her clothes, if she ever spoke to me again.
I opened the fridge. Not much there, just a few Tupperware containers, some coffee creamer, apples, Diet Cokes, bottled water, and two plastic jugs with Kool-Aid-looking drinks. “What’s the difference between the green juice and the red juice?”
“About two weeks, probably, knowing these slobs.”
A toilet flushed. The door at the end of the living room near the bunk beds opened. Someone wearing sweatpants, a hooded sweatshirt that said NEW JERSEY CHARM SCHOOL, and an eye mask came out. Whoever it was looked like the Unabomber.
Miguel clutched his chest and went, “Coño, Brynn, what are you wearing sweats for? This is Miami. It’s eighty degrees outside.”
Brynn lifted her eye mask up. “I wouldn’t have to if the damn Russians didn’t keep the AC so friggin’ cold it’s like Siberia in here. I’m freezing my ass off.” She had one of those hoarse, gravelly voices. She yawned and stretched as she walked up to us. “What time is it?”
Miguel was gathering up cups. “Twelve-thirty. Listen, Brynn, get a garbage bag. You guys have to help me clean up. Irina! Vlada! This girl’s parents will be here in a few minutes. I think Momma’s coming too.” He turned to me. “That’s the real reason Momma sent us here before your parents. She didn’t want you to see all this mierda either, but whatev, you were with me.”
Brynn pulled off her eye mask and flipped her hood down, checking me out. I’d been checked out more times today than I’d ever been checked out in my whole life. Her olive skin and light brown eyes reminded me of my own. “Who the hell are you?” she asked.
“I’m, uh, Allee.”
“You both have similar coloring, you know,” said Miguel, sweeping up the kitchen. “That’s funny. They usually don’t like to have too many with the same look on one board. Although maybe it’s because you’re younger, Allee. You two might not get sent out for the same jobs.”
“Might not,” Brynn said. “But if we do…” She stepped closer to me so we were face-to-face. “Let the games begin.”
Whoa.
chapter 7
I went home, packed up, and was flying down I-95 in my Beetle convertible just two days later. Okay, well, maybe not flying. I was only going sixty-five. I obeyed the speed limit signs. But it was still fast enough for my hair to be flapping behind me like a crazy flag and fast enough so that I couldn’t see my parents’ SUV following me in my rearview mirror anymore (they’d insisted on going down, too, to get me settled in). My top was down, my radio was blasting, and I was blissed out and feeling free as I headed back to South Beach.
Even my car was feeling the excitement. Seriously. Have you ever really looked at a Volkswagen Beetle? They have faces. I’d have sworn my car was smiling. I wasn’t too sure what it was smiling about, though, since the red paint was scratched in places and there was a rip in the black upholstery. It was really a used piece of junk, if you want to know the truth. But it was cool, all mine, and it got me out of Comet, so I’d always love it for that.
I did have some fears fluttering around in my belly, though. Brynn had freaked me out. She scared me. But the instant she said Let the games begin, I was ready to play against her. I don’t know if it was the intense way she got up in my face and challenged me or what, but something came over me, an I’ll show her feeling. I’d always been competitive about stuff I cared about, like grades or cross-country, but this was different. I didn’t know anything about being in front of the camera. But I suddenly wanted to jump into the modeling ring, wanted to prove myself, even if it meant butting heads with an intimidating chick like Brynn.
And who didn’t want to be told they’re pretty enough to be a model? Let’s be real. The scouts and the bookers were excited about me, and I was flattered. Back home, I believed strong, smart women shouldn’t be valued by their appearance. But all the attention I was getting in South Beach was like a feel-good drug. I was totally disoriented. Maybe everybody’s dirty little secret was that they wanted to be beautiful.
It sure turned out to be mine.
“If you miss a casting, you better have a damn good reason. And if it happens again, I drop you. Miss a casting for a national commercial, you don’t get a second chance. Same goes if you don’t show for a booking. You’re gone.” Momma and I were in the conference room at the big table. I was taking notes. Her growly man-voice was clipped and sharp, all business. “You might have six or seven castings in one day, all within ten blocks, right here on the strip. Or you might have none for your type. It’s an unpredictable business. TV castings are all over the city, and we like it when models go together. Don’t be late to a casting, and don’t ever, ever be late to a booking. Ever. All you have to do is show up on time with your voucher for them to sign so you can get paid, and don’t forget
to have a good attitude. And by the way, ‘on time’ means ten minutes early in this business. If you’re not sure where a location is, go there in advance and do a practice run.” She handed me a paper. “Here’s a list of on-camera workshops we recommend. Try to take the ones given by casting directors. They’re the best, and they’ll keep you in mind for commercials if you take their workshop. Lori Wyman’s is really good. Any questions?”
Yeah, how about, could you repeat all that? “No.”
Her basset hound/Ozzy face crinkled into a grin. She patted my hand. “You’re going to do just fine, sweetie. Don’t look so nervous.”
“I’m not.” Yeah, right. I’d been a bundle of nerves ever since I got here a couple of hours ago. My parents just left and I was trying to let go of this gnawing ache they left in me. I didn’t expect to feel this way. I thought I’d feel independent, happy to start enjoying my new freedom, and instead I was fighting back tears. They’d taken me to lunch and made a big production out of saying good-bye. Mom got all teary-eyed and made me promise to call and eat right and take my vitamins. Dad told me to come home and visit soon, and then he gave me an envelope with five hundred dollars inside. So even though I was experiencing some pangs from cutting the parental strings, I was also feeling kinda rich.
Momma coughed and chugged her water bottle. “Good. I can start sending you out as soon as your comp is done. Your comp is the first step, then we’ll put together your portfolio book. Miami’s a great market to build up your book. We can set you up with a testing photographer to get you started. Now. Let’s talk communication. I told your mom to get you a BlackBerry or a Sidekick.” I pointed to the BlackBerry clipped onto my jeans. “Good. We’ll e-mail your details most of the time, but stop by or call and check in every couple of days, okay? Swing by Dimitri’s table too.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and here.” She slid something across her desk. It was a date book, black with red letters that spelled out Finesse. “Write your castings and bookings in this agenda and always have it with you. I know, I know, you have your BlackBerry, but you kids lose them, delete things, and I don’t know what. I like to have a backup, so just write everything down. Kapeesh?”
Braless in Wonderland Page 5
