Braless in Wonderland

by Debbie Reed Fischer

  “Interesting theory.”

  “It’s true. Clothes affect your emotions. And maybe you and your mom have different priorities, but you know what? I got a feeling you might like heels and accessories and girly stuff.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Don’t knock it till you try it, niña. I was Catwoman for Halloween once and I worked those stiletto boots better than Halle Berry. Truth.”

  Miguel was late. He said he’d take me shopping last night, but I was starting to think maybe he’d forgotten. I was outside on the sidewalk, waiting for him.

  My BlackBerry was ringing. “Hello.”

  “Happy birthday!”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, honey. I can’t believe you’re seventeen! I thought maybe you’d come home for your birthday, surprise us. But you didn’t. I got a cake and everything.”

  “Mom, they have castings on Saturdays and Sundays. I can’t leave.”

  “What about during the week?”

  “Mom…”

  “I want to see you. Are you dressing up more? What jewelry are you wearing?”

  “None. But I’m thinking about getting a nose ring.”

  “Maybe Dad and I will come down and make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

  “Yes, because I am totally incapable of taking care of myself. Did I tell you I left the refrigerator open all day?”

  “Allee—”

  “Because I forgot to close it when I drank directly from the milk container, after running through the apartment with scissors.”

  “Has anyone offered you drugs?”

  “Yes, a carb burner. Listen, is Sabrina there?”

  I heard Mom yell, “Sabrina! Sabrina!” Then muffled whispering, the slam of a door. Mom got back on the phone.

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you, Allee. I’m sorry, honey. I’ve tried to get her to call you, but she’s not ready, I guess.”

  “God, she needs get over it already.”

  “I know, Allee, but it’s very hard for her with you out there, getting to do what she wants to do so badly. Put yourself in her shoes.”

  Way to go with the guilt trip, Mom.

  I heard the clicking sound of another person on the line. “Happy barf day.” It was my sister. I waited for her to say something else. She didn’t. We just listened to each other breathing until we heard the click of Mom hanging up.

  “So…are you going to apologize for the way you acted?” I asked.

  “Do you want me to send you my Heidi Klum book about modeling?”

  “I accept your apology.”

  “I’m not apologizing. You should be apologizing. You’re the one who screwed up my audition with your babyish tantrum in front of the scouts!” she yelled.

  “Yeah, because you never told me about the phone call!” I yelled back, scaring a stray cat into the bushes. “It’s all your fault!”

  “It is not!”

  “It is too!”

  “Is not!”

  “Is too!”

  “Fine! I’m sorry!”

  Excuse me. What just happened?

  That was definitely an apology. So I said, “Okay, fine. I’m sorry too.”

  We listened to each other breathe again, and then she said, “So, how are you doing there?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Have you gone out for any fashion mags?”

  “Yeah. For this one German magazine, Dietra.”

  “That is super-high fashion. Did you get it?”

  “It’s really competitive, Sabrina. Like, way worse than I thought.”

  “Really? Well…just, you know, think positive. Like, let the competition worry about the competition. That’s what you said when you applied to Yale.”

  “That was different.”

  “I wonder what clothes you’d get to wear for Dietra. You might have to show some skin.”

  “What do you mean, show some skin?”

  “Allee, have you ever looked at high-fashion magazines? All the models are, like, half naked and freaky-looking. Even the famous ones like Kate Moss. Who’s the photographer? Anyone big?”

  “Kinda. Uta Scholes. Do you know her?”

  “Omigod! I’ve seen her photos online. Watch, you’ll get this one, even though I still say you’re so not model material.”

  “Thanks for your support. I think.”

  Her voice softened. “Hey, I’m not mad anymore. And if I can’t be the one in magazines, then I guess I’m glad it’s you, even if you are a total loser with no fashion sense, like, whatsoever.”

  That was so sweet. “Thanks,” I said, getting all choked up.

  “Okay, so happy barf day. Here’s Dad.”

  Everything felt right again, me being back to normal with her. It felt like nothing had happened between us, like we’d just spoken yesterday or something. Maybe it was a sign things were looking up. Maybe my luck was going to change.

  I heard the crackly sound of the phone being passed. “Happy birthday!”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “So, is your modeling career taking off yet?”

  “Dad, that is not helpful.” He knew my career wasn’t taking off. My parents called me every other day.

  He cleared his throat. “Listen, I, uh, spoke to Monique and Momma the other day.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, I just wanted to know what’s going on. You’ve been there almost a month and haven’t gotten one lousy job.”

  “Again, not helpful.”

  “Listen, Allee, you’re beautiful to me, you know that. Those clients are blind if they don’t pick you. But I just think if you’re not getting any work, you should come home. I can’t see you wasting the rest of your senior year there, not studying or working for the rest of the school year.”

  “But, Dad—”

  “This was never your idea to begin with. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.”

  “Or maybe it was. And it’s about to happen. All I need is a couple of good commercials to make the really big money. And Momma told me I’m great for commercials.”

  “But if you don’t get a commercial this season, then this was all a waste. You have to think about what you’re doing for college. You know U of Florida has a good science department. Their business school isn’t bad either.”

  “Dad, you know I want to major in English,” I said through gritted teeth. “At Yale.”

  “I just want you to be realistic,” he said. Dad worried that majoring in English wasn’t practical and I wouldn’t get a high-paying job in the future. But I really didn’t want to study anything else. He was always hinting that I follow in his footsteps or go into the corporate world. Yuck.

  “Two more weeks, Allee. That’s it. If you don’t get any work by then, you’re coming home.”

  AAAAAAHHH!!! Every time I thought about what Dad had said, panic gripped my throat like a python squeezing it and I had to stop and force myself to calm down and breathe.

  I could not, could not, could not go home. I just couldn’t. Everyone was going to say I was a loser. A joke. I’d be pointed at, laughed at, ridiculed. “Imagine, Allee Rosen telling everybody she was modeling when she wasn’t.” Going home was NOT an option.

  “Allee, you don’t have to make that face. They don’t look that bad. Turn around again.” Miguel and I were at a vintage store, the last stop on Miguel’s shopping hit parade. Summer had told me he loved vintage stores. I invited her to come along, but she had a session with her trainer.

  Miguel had already taken me to Chroma and Lavish and a few other expensive boutiques just for browsing and celebrity-hunting (we saw Nicole Richie), and then we went to Urban Outfitters and a few other stores for serious purchasing. So far, I’d bought some bright-colored minidresses, some tops, belts, and a rhinestone gun “to give your current wardrobe a little za-za-fritz.” Now we were looking at jeans. “You know what? You’ve lost weight, Allee girl. You need a size smaller.” He was right. These jeans were hanging on me. All my cloth
es had gotten really baggy lately. “What diet have you been on?”

  “The I-don’t-have-time-to-eat diet.”

  “You’re not doing those crazy Brazilian weight-loss pills that are going around, are you? You don’t want to get too thin. You’re not high fashion, you’re a commercial girl.”

  “No, I would never take pills. Hey, what about those?” I held up another pair of jeans with embroidery on the pockets.

  “Nah. Not for you. And the smaller the pocket the bigger your booty looks. But then again, the whole big booty thing is in again now, so I don’t know, maybe…”

  “So, it’s true,” I groaned. “I do have a big one.”

  “Yeah, and you’ll slam all the Latino castings with that thing. Own it, love it. It’s brash, it’s brazen, it’s saying hello to the world whether you like it or not—or good-bye, depending on which way you’re walking, and—”

  “It’s that big? Even though I lost a couple pounds?”

  “Allee. You can’t spell ‘fantastic’ without ass. Just ask J.Lo.”

  “Um, actually, that’s not true. It’s f-a-n-t—”

  “You’re bootay-licious, show it off, girl. In this Marc Jacobs skirt. Wow, it’s only forty bucks.”

  I tried it on. Miguel paired it with a sequined tube top, a big, floppy hat, and a gazillion bangles. When I came out of the fitting room he went, “Bull’s-eye. Give me a catalog pose.” I put my hand on my hip and stared blankly into the distance. He clapped his hands.

  “But, Miguel, this looks like a costume. Real people don’t dress like this.”

  “Real people? Who cares about them? Pero, you know what? Maybe that’s your problem, worrying about real people. You gotta forget what’s real, Allee. Modeling is all about make-believe and dressing up, you know? It’s all about fun.” Again with the fun. If one more person told me to have fun, I’d shoot them with my rhinestone gun. “Didn’t you ever dress up your Barbie? I did. In secret. This is the same thing, except you get to be Barbie.”

  “Uch, Barbies give little girls self-esteem issues. No one can look like that. Can’t I dress up in something a little more, you know, me?”

  “You’re not home anymore. You don’t have to be the same person you are at home. But, okay, let’s go a different way.” The next outfit he put together was a cropped cardigan over a snug polo, plaid mini, and little square, blue, plastic glasses (we popped the lenses out). I stepped out of the fitting room and he went, “Voilà, the hot nerdy thing still works. This look is great for TV, when they’re casting for the high school kid or college kid, except they’ll make you lose the glasses so they can see your face better. Wear them on top of your head instead of a headband. You can wear flats with this—loafers or Keds even—but the rest of the time, heels, girl, high heels.”

  “I can’t walk in heels. They make me look like a spaz.”

  “Have you practiced?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then, what do you expect? Models don’t come out of a box with all the moves. Look in the mirror, practice your poses, practice, practice, practice. And wear bright colors, because a life without color is a life without color.” He gasped. “Damn, that’s good. I need to write that down and save it for when I have my own makeover show on the Style channel.” He held up an air microphone. “This is Miguel Sanchez-Garcia signing off, reminding you that a life without color is a life without color.” He winked. “Thanks for watching.”

  Miguel still had to pick out one more outfit, something I could wear to a club. Except I wasn’t sure I could trust him on this one. First of all, he insisted we had to get it at this two-story shop called CeeCee Bloom, specializing in clothing and accessories for cross-dressers. Excuse me, but a lot of the clothing in CeeCee Bloom was in the omigod-are-you-kidding-me category, although Abuela would have loved all the wigs, pancake makeup, and feather boas.

  “Allee!” Uh-oh. He had something very glittery in his hands. “Ven aqui. Try this on.”

  He handed me an itty-bitty dress. “Miguel, are you sure?” I could just hear Brynn right now, shooting some insult at me, making everyone laugh. What had gotten into me? Why, why, why did I care what they thought? I sounded like my mother, worrying what people would say. Or The Fluff, obsessing about clothes. “I’m not sure about this one.”

  “Stop whining. Just try it on.”

  The dress was black with silver straps, backless, and very short. It looked great on me, showed off my toned legs and arms. I really liked the way the clingy material, well, clung to me. I felt like a different person in this. I had to give him props. I walked out of the dressing room and Miguel sang, “She’s a sexy supah stah…bow chicka bow bow…”

  I smiled. “I never thought I’d say this, but I love it.”

  “I knew I was right about you. There’s a you that you haven’t even met yet. Oh, yes, niña. There is.”

  “How do I wear a bra with this?”

  “You don’t.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t know if I could do that. “This is black, though. What about ‘a life without color—’”

  “Forget the rule at night. It’s a daytime rule. And the minidress will never go out. It’s the little trend that could. Ay, Brynn will die of jealousy when she sees you in this, just die.” I couldn’t help beaming. “It’s missing something, though. Here, try this.” He took a black leather belt with studs right off the mannequin next to us. He also took off the dog collar. “Don’t give me that look. Try them on.” I did. And I looked ridiculoso. But Miguel didn’t think so. “See? It works. A little bit swank, a little bit spank.”

  “How about I get the belt, but not the dog collar?”

  After a lot of eye-rolling and protesting, he gave up on the dog collar.

  I went back to the dressing room to change, and I studied myself in the mirror for a long time. A new me I haven’t met yet. I wanted to be this person I was looking at, this smiling girl in a great dress. I wasn’t a buzzkill, like Brynn said. I’d just never tried to be part of things. They were right that I didn’t take part in the fun. It was an old habit, me always being a fly on the wall, never being at the party, just hearing about it later or watching from a distance.

  But I didn’t want to be the person I was back home anymore. I wanted to be more like Alice. I slowly turned around, looking at myself in the mirror from every angle. It’s all about make-believe… what would Alice do if she were me? She’d not only wear this dress, she’d wear it to the mad tea party and dance all night. Alice didn’t hesitate to try new things.

  No more clipping my BlackBerry on. Good-bye, Allee. Hello, Alice.

  chapter 13

  I bought the dress and belt, wondering how I was going to work up the guts to wear it, plus a Che Guevara T-shirt and a gift for my sister, a necklace with purple blue stones, the same color as her eyes. Miguel bought a mauve satin pajama set and matching eye mask that said Sleeping Beauty. Then we left and went out onto Lincoln Road, an open-air pedestrian mall of shops, art galleries, and restaurants. We passed Rollerbladers, women with dogs in their purses, Frankenmuscle fitness freaks, stray cats, kids on scooters, business-suit banker types, Euro-backpackers, and a performance artist spitting dried fruit onto a blank canvas. It made me feel alive, being part of this funky human salad.

  I really, really, really didn’t want to go back to Cape Comet.

  “Qué te pasa, niña? You seem distracted.”

  “I don’t know if I can pull this off.”

  “Borrow my attitude and you’ll be fine. Isaac Mizrahi says style is all about conviction.”

  “No, no, not just about the dress. I mean about being a model. Maybe it’s not meant to be. That’s what my dad said.”

  “You know what my dad said? My dad said I should be a police officer like my brothers.”

  I stopped in my tracks and looked down at his ninety-eight-pound frame. “You? A police officer?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Was your dad blind? Deaf? Brainless?”

&nbs
p; “All of the above. Come on, I’ll tell you about it over lunch. Let’s go to the News.”

  “What’s the News?”

  “The News Cafe.” He put his hand over his heart. “You can get newspapers and magazines from all over the world there and a fabulous spinach wrap with goat cheese and pecans. Versace was on his way there to get his morning coffee and paper when he was shot, Que Dios lo tenga en su gloria.” He crossed himself.

  We sat outside at a little white table with a green umbrella over us. Two bizarre, pudgy old ladies walked by wearing matching yellow suits with black polka dots and matching wide-brimmed hats that were also yellow with black polka dots. They reminded me of Tweedledee and Tweedledum. “The Skull sisters,” Miguel said, after they’d strolled by. “Very famous artists. They do 3-D paintings, mostly scenes of Cuba.” A black guy in a one-piece green leotard Rollerbladed past us, practically in slow motion. It was like he was barely moving. “We call him the Green Hornet.” A man wearing cargo shorts and a top hat was showing someone a card trick at a nearby table. A mad hatter on the beach? I looked at Miguel. “I don’t know him.” This place was as surreal as Wonderland, full of bizarre characters. Sometimes when I walked around here, I wasn’t sure if I was really seeing what I was seeing.

  After lunch, we walked two blocks over to Washington, to have coffee at Kitsch and Dish. The walls were cluttered with metal lunch boxes from the seventies, Cabbage Patch dolls, and other assorted garage sale decor. Our waitress was in her sixties and she was wearing wooden, pink flamingo earrings that kinda blended with her rose-colored beehive. We curled up on two velvet chairs in front of a coffee table topped with Madonna’s Sex book.

  My BlackBerry kept vibrating. I ignored it. It was probably Abuela and Robby with birthday calls, and I wasn’t up to doing the whole yippee, it’s my birthday thing. I’d check the messages on my voice mail later. Right now I’d rather listen to Miguel telling me all about his horrific high school years with his caveman cop dad and cop brothers. “How did you survive it?” I asked him.

  “I knew I’d get out of the house as soon as I could, and that dream kept me going. I’ve been free for two years now.” He sipped his coffee slowly, lost in thought, then put his mug down and did a little shimmy shake. “So that’s the 411 on mi familia. I survived. But you know what? People can survive anything. It’s surviving in great clothes that’s the trick.”