Braless in Wonderland

by Debbie Reed Fischer

  “Okay.” As I opened the door to leave, I looked back at them and said, “Thank you for the opportunity.” I had learned some things from Summer. And the truth was, it was an incredible opportunity. For someone else.

  Just not me. Because I had other goals, and I’d never wanted to be a model in the first place. Even though the idea of modeling in an exciting foreign country, making tons of money, having great adventures and experiences was like winning the lottery for some people, it wasn’t for me. Because I was headed for an Ivy League future.

  Period.

  Miguel was at his desk. It had slowed down a lot in the booking room. Just two weeks ago this room had a tense atmosphere, with the bookers glued to their interconnected desks, talking into headsets, and staring at their screens with such concentration I wondered if somehow they were stopping a nuclear reactor from detonating instead of booking pretty girls and pretty boys in pretty pictures.

  But right now it was very relaxed. One of the bookers was cutting old composite cards and making finger puppets. The bookers were having a bash-and-trash session. They must have forgotten I was in the room, listening.

  “You could land a plane on that forehead.”

  “That’s not a forehead, that’s a fivehead.”

  “Check the new girl, Maria K. She’s got that it’s going to be very expensive to hook up with me look.”

  “Yeah, you’d never know that in Nicaragua she was sorting coffee beans for pennies a day, wearing one of those sad little kerchiefs on her head.”

  I whispered to Miguel, “What do they say when I’m not around?”

  “I can’t tell you because that would be unprofessional. But walk on my back and I just might. Oh, by the way, I think I’ve found your ticket.”

  “You found my ticket and you didn’t tell me?”

  “I have to show you, not tell you. Let’s pull up your e-book.” He clicked the Lifestyle icon on his computer and all the models on Finesse’s commercial board appeared, including me. He clicked on my image and photos from my portfolio appeared. The lingerie shot for Dietra was the first one. “Here we go.” He snapped his fingers, swayed in his seat. “She’s a sexy supah stah, yeah…”

  “Stop,” I said. All of Uta Scholes’s pictures popped with feeling and surreal visuals. Miguel clicked on the shot of me lying across the blanket in the Gaultier tutu, with the boy and the bunnies. It looked like a painting. So much had gone into this photo, so many talents. All of us—me, the boy, the crew—made that image together. We all had a part in bringing the vision to life, like the cast of a play, almost. I was totally wrong about fashion photography not being art. It was, sometimes. I was even starting to see some of the clothing as art. What was the difference if you hung it on a person or a wall? A creation was a creation.

  “I love, love, love this shot,” said Miguel, pointing to my lingerie shot. “It’s perfecto dilecto. The sunset, your skin, your shape.”

  “I still don’t know how I booked that.”

  “I don’t know either,” said Dimitri.

  Miguel slapped his hand on his desk and shouted at Dimitri, “That is so mean!” He turned to me. “She’s so bitchy today, she’s driving me up the wall.” It took me a sec to realize the “she” he was referring to was Dimitri.

  And Dimitri didn’t like it. “I am not being bitchy today, but if I am, it’s because you took my last farking pencil, you little thief. I said I don’t know how she booked that because she’s not edgy enough.”

  The bookers all weighed in on this topic. “That’s why they booked her, because the very idea of edgy is doing the unexpected.”

  “And what could be more unexpected than taking a commercial girl, edging her up, and putting her in a fashion editorial?”

  “You’re right, that is edgy.”

  “The essence of edgy.”

  I didn’t want Miguel to lose his focus on me. “Excuse me, but could we get back to my ticket?”

  Miguel turned back to the computer and clicked on another of my pictures. It was an ad for Viva deodorant, a still taken from the commercial I’d done in Costa Rica. It was an hommage to Amelia Earhart. I was standing next to an antique propeller plane with an old-fashioned flight helmet on, leather jacket, and slouchy pants. Next was a test shot of me gazing out from a rooftop and another where I was driving a speedboat with some guys in the backseat.

  “Were you really driving that?” Miguel asked.

  “No, it wasn’t even moving.” There was a catalog tear sheet from an athletic-wear catalog where I was running away from the camera and looking back with a playful smile, my hair flying out wildly in the wind as I was being chased by a guy. I really liked the Latina Allee pictures from my first test shoot. I was sitting outside, sipping Cuban café out of a little cup, touching the flowers in my hair. I remembered trying to take them out because there were bugs biting my scalp. The last picture was at the beach, and I was screaming “Whee!” in a bathing suit. It was at an angle, and my rear end was jutting out, high and round.

  Miguel was watching me, not the screen. “Do you see your ticket?”

  It might have been my legs or hair, but models with great hair and legs were a dime a dozen, so that couldn’t be it. I really hoped it wasn’t…“My butt?”

  “No.” He laughed.

  “My hair?”

  “No. Your ticket isn’t physical.”

  “What? How could it not be physical?”

  “It’s what shows up in the pictures, niña, and what shows up in the pictures is your attitude.”

  “I have an attitude?”

  “You do, a good one. Mira, look at this.” He clicked onto an extreme close-up of my face, known as a beauty shot. There was a burning look in my eyes. “See? A client looks at that and goes, ‘There’s a lot going on in that pretty head.’”

  “I don’t see it. What are you saying? My ticket is my intelligence?”

  “Well, I don’t know how intelligent you are if you can’t see your ticket.”

  “Miguel, just say what it is already.”

  He inhaled, exhaled, smoothed back his hair. “You’re versatile and you have a range of looks, like a model should, but you’re bringing more than just personality to the table. In every picture, you’re a strong girl, someone smart, in charge of herself. There isn’t one shot where a guy is dominating you or where you’re just standing there, even when the client has another guy in the shot.”

  “But I did do a couple of jobs with guys where it looks like that.”

  “We didn’t put them in your book. Those aren’t your strongest shots, probably because you’re not comfortable with the pretty plaything role. Your ticket, mi amor, is your approach that girls—perdón—women aren’t just objects of beauty.”

  “So my ticket is my point of view?”

  “Sí. It’s unique, especially around here. It’s what makes you you, and it shows in your pictures. I don’t know how, but it’s there.”

  That was extremely cool. In fact, that was the best ticket I could have hoped for, and by far, a better ticket than anyone else had. I smiled at Miguel, and it wasn’t my casting smile, it was a real one. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have figured that out on my own.”

  “I know. You can’t even figure out how to coordinate. Look at your shoes and purse. But if you want to thank me, I’ll let you walk on my back.”

  “Bravo, Allee,” Dimitri said, patting me on the head like a dog. Excuse me, had he heard anything Miguel had just said? “And bravo, Miguel. You explain it so good. This is why you work for me. Not like those two, who don’t work for anybody.” I followed his gaze toward the glass wall that looked out into the lobby. Irina and Vlada were going into Monique’s office. They were wearing waitress uniforms.

  “They’re working at some new restaurant that’s opening on Washington tonight,” Miguel said. “They said they’d come by and drop off party passes. They must be getting paid under the table.”

  “At least they’ll be getting paid somewhe
re,” said Dimitri.

  I couldn’t get over how exquisite they were, like two mythological goddesses, even in those waitress uniforms. “Why didn’t they ever get booked?” I wondered out loud.

  “Their pictures had no feeling,” said Dimitri. “No nothing. Cold. In photos, they had no life.”

  Miguel nodded. “No ticket.”

  It was nice to know I had one.

  “You should go to Japan,” Sabrina said after I’d told her about the Japan offer.

  “You think so?”

  “Totally. Fashion is so wild over there.”

  I sighed. “I wish I could go.”

  “Are you impaired? Why can’t you? I would die to go to Japan.”

  “They said the money is really good too.”

  “Then why wouldn’t you go?”

  “Because my goal was always Yale, not Tokyo. Besides, it’s too crazy. And what about finishing summer school? Hello, graduating.”

  “So take your courses online from Tokyo. If you could do it from Miami, you could do it from Tokyo.”

  That was true. I hadn’t thought about that.

  “Change your goal,” Sabrina said. “Go to Yale later.”

  I was at Intermix, trying on an Ella Moss wrap dress. I’d add it to the rest of what I was buying—Gucci sunglasses, a Red Carter bikini with an art deco architecture pattern on it, and a Chloé T-shirt for Sabrina. I only had another two weeks here, so I was getting in as much glam and fashion splurging as I could.

  It was all expensive, and I knew every penny I made should go toward college, but this would be my big clothing splurge before summer school. Besides, those residual checks were coming in. Plus I figured this was also my reward for standing under hot lights for two hours this morning. It was an indoor shoot for a South American jeans company’s online look book, and even though the rate was low, the client had given me three pairs of jeans to take home.

  South Beach was starting to feel empty, quieter than usual. It would be time for me to go soon. I should be excited to finish summer school and go to Yale already.

  So why wasn’t I excited? I’d learn from the best of the best, be at the center of academic life, get to hang out with other kids who liked to study and read like me, maybe meet some hot, brilliant guy who’d sweep me off my feet. I’d fit in there, way better than I’d ever fit in here or in Comet. But then images jumped into my mind, of me walking through crowded Tokyo streets, of modeling in a Japanese runway show, of learning the language, traveling, maybe hanging out with Gwen Stefani and her Japanese girl posse. That whole Japan offer was really toying with my imagination.

  But, of course, I couldn’t take it. I’d always been Yale bound. I had to stick to the plan, not get sidetracked. Which was why I had to mail Yale my letter accepting their offer already. I had been waiting until I was sure I’d have the money, and I did now.

  So what was I waiting for? This was what I’d always wanted.

  “Hey, aren’t you the girl from the Taboo commercial, the one who dances so funny?” It was the salesgirl.

  “Yes.” I smiled.

  “Oh, you are so hilarious. I didn’t recognize you at first. Do you want me to ring that stuff up for you?”

  “No,” I said. “I want to stay awhile. I’m not quite finished…shopping.”

  It was Thursday night and Dimitri’s facial stubble and tousled hair were looking ferociously hot this evening. I was sitting with him and Miguel at Nobu, at a tiny square table in the bar area. We were waiting for Claudette so we could get a big table in the dining room. Brynn was supposed to show up too, but I wasn’t counting on it.

  This restaurant was the most on-the-scene restaurant on the scene. It was in the Shore Club, and there was no sign that said Nobu anywhere, not in the hotel, not on the garden terrace, not even on the door to the restaurant. You were supposed to just know where it was, like an only those in the know can know kind of thing. It was dark with tons of candles, and it was model central. Everyone was striking poses, hair-tossing and eye-flirting. Miguel not only knew who half the room was, he could dish about them.

  “Okay, time for dis and tell. That’s Paula, thinks she’s a model and she so isn’t, puro deadweight, but her boyfriend is John Singer, you know, the photographer? So the agency signed her to get John’s business. And that’s Julie Marshand. ’Member her, Dimitri? We used to rep her for lifestyle. She was a high-class escort back in the day, before she married the real estate king Chaim Ludevitch. Ay Dios, Paula’s coming over, don’t look.”

  Paula came over and Dimitri did his whole kissing-on-both-cheeks bit. And then I glanced down and screeched to a halt, almost dropping my Coke. Dimitri’s hand was clasped firmly in Miguel’s. How long had this been going on? I thought they were strictly a working duo.

  In the middle of fumbling with his chopsticks and sushi, Miguel noticed I’d noticed. “Allee, will you keep it on the down low? It just started, and we’re trying to keep it private.”

  “Sure, but…”

  “What?”

  “He drives you up the wall. You said so yourself.”

  “Oh, that.” He waved his free hand. “He does, but that’s just his office personality, when he’s stressed. He’s different when we’re alone.”

  “Should you be dating your boss? All the magazines say you shouldn’t.”

  “Which is why you have to shut up about it.” I mimed locking up my lips and throwing away the key. “Look, he needs me and…I think I love him. I just realized it. Sometimes a person is right in front of you and you don’t really see them, you know?”

  “I know. My sister’s been right in front of me my whole life, but I never really saw her for who she is until I left home. It took being away from her for me to understand her.” I sipped my Coke, thinking about the parade of mistaken identities that had marched through my life since January. I’d thought Summer was genuine and sweet when she was dangerously toxic. Brynn had some problems, but she wasn’t mean or out for my blood, like I first thought. She was just brutally honest and thought life should be a party. And what about Claudette? I wrote her off as a primo weirdo when I met her. Her train was a little off the tracks, it was true, but she was one of the warmest, most intelligent, open-minded people I’d ever met. I’d been wrong about a lot of people who’d been right in front of me. “Does Dimitri love you?”

  He nodded and actually looked embarrassed. I bet if it wasn’t so dark in here, I’d see him blushing. Paula left, and Dimitri turned to Miguel with this look of pure adoration. They were in their own world until Miguel screamed, “Omigod, is that Ricky Martin?!” It was, and after a while, we saw Pamela Anderson and after that, Mickey Rourke. “Look at Pam. She gives white trash a bad name, but you know what? I still love her. Poor Mickey, though. He looks like a science project. His face is more quilted than a Chanel bag. And what is that, is he carrying a dog? Ooh, do you see who I see? That’s…oh, wait…no, that’s Summer.”

  “Where?” Dimitri and I asked.

  “Over there.” She was with midlife crisis man, shaking hands with a group of people, looking every inch a movie star. The group left the bar, and she went with them into the dining room. “See the fat guy with the beard she just said hello to?”

  “Yeah.” He looked like a demented mountain man, the kind who kidnapped female joggers and took them for brides.

  “He’s a movie producer. Like, a really big deal in Australia. They were interviewing him on Deco Drive last night. He’s here for some film festival.”

  Whatever. Good for Summer. I’d be traveling on a different path soon anyway, far away from this one. This had all turned out to be a learning experience, and Summer was part of it.

  chapter 22

  Miguel came over. He threw the covers off me. All I had on was my A WOMAN NEEDS A MAN LIKE A FISH NEEDS A BICYCLE T-shirt and underwear. I’d been in bed all day, tired out from a three-day job in Nassau. My flight had come in at two in the morning. It was probably my last job this season, a nonunion
educational film. The pay was crap, but I got to swim with dolphins and stay at an amazing resort. I loved it, but after three days smiling underwater, I was exhausted. I pulled the covers back over me so Miguel would take the hint.

  He didn’t. “I know you’re awake, Allee cat. Come on, you’re missing the art deco festival.”

  “Miguel, I love you, but go away.”

  “No. You’ve been here all day, and I don’t know how to tell you this, niña, but you need to take a shower. Badly.” He opened the blinds, sat on my bed, and took out a Styrofoam box with Cuban pastries, pastelitos de guayaba.

  “Mmmm, those smell good,” I said, opening my eyes.

  “Coño, Allee, when was the last time you brushed your teeth?”

  I pulled the covers over my mouth. “Yesterday.”

  “Well, it’s time for some Scope.” He poured café cubano from a big Styrofoam cup into a tiny cup and handed it to me, then picked up my copy of Pride and Prejudice from the floor and dropped it on my bed. “I can’t believe you read that for fun. You’re not gonna have time to read in Japan, you know. You’ll be too busy.”

  “Miguel, I am not going to Japan.” He kept pushing me to go.

  “Why not? If I was you I wouldn’t even bother with Cape Caca for summer school. I’d get a GED and be on the next plane to Tokyo.”

  “People like me don’t get GEDs. I’ve dedicated the last four years to school and my grades.”

  “Correction. Three and a half years. The last few months you’ve dedicated yourself to being a model.”

  “I got into Yale. I’m not giving that up. My modeling days are gonna be over soon.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Yeah, I do. I have to go to college.”

  “You don’t have to do anything.”

  I sighed. He didn’t get it. “Japan is not in the Allee plan, okay? It’s, like, out of the question not to go to Yale. I would totally be letting my parents down if I blew off an Ivy League education to go to the other side of the world and model.” I snorted. “You don’t not go to Yale if you get in. Nobody does that.”