by Toby Neal
“Didn’t know I had a curfew,” I say, strolling in past her, wondering how I can get the hundred-dollar bill back into the cookie jar without her noticing.
“Who was that guy on the motorcycle?”
Oh damn.
“What, spying on me?” I head for the stairs. The best defense is always a good offense. “Keeping an eye on me like an old lady peeping at the window?”
This pisses Ruby off to no end, as I knew it would.
She actually growls and stomps her foot, and chases me up the stairs. “Pearl, for God’s sake. We’re responsible for you. Didn’t Rafe talk to you about... about if you can’t follow the rules?”
“What rule did I break?” I reach the landing, fold my arms over my chest. I can feel how taut my nipples are from the cold and from being so close to Hot Motorcycle Guy. “I left you a note that I was going for a walk on the Common.”
“I know you did, but that guy dropping you off—that wasn’t walking home from the park!”
I relent, because I’m kind of happy right now and there’s no sense pissing Ruby off when Motorcycle Guy really did help me. He distracted me so totally I forgot all about getting high.
“I ran into him at the park. He’s a guy from my twelve-step meeting, okay? He gave me a ride home. He was totally sweet, too.”
Well, maybe not sweet. Sweet tasting, though. My body lights up, remembering his kisses.
“Oh.” Ruby’s still got her hands on her hips. “How did the outing to the park with Brandon go?”
I shake my head, feeling the happiness I had for a few minutes draining away. “It was super upsetting.”
“Well, you can talk to Dr. Rosenfeld about it tomorrow because you have a really busy day. Brandon called here and left a message that he has an appointment for you to meet his mother about the modeling thing. He’ll pick you up right after school. And you have your lunchtime twelve-step meeting; Rafe and I are busy tomorrow so you can take one of the cars to school and go to it at lunch yourself. Then, you have Dr. Rosenfeld at six.”
“Okay.” I feel smothered by all of this. I just want to get to my room and lie on my bed and fantasize about Hot Motorcycle Guy. I wonder how old he is. Rafe and Ruby will probably think he’s too old for me. They even think Brandon is too old for me, I can tell.
But I’m eighteen now, and I was never a young eighteen.
Ruby hugs me, and I hug her back, now that the fight is over. “I just worry about you, that’s all,” she says in my ear.
I pull away. “I’m fine. The bruises are a lot better today, and even though going with Brandon to the park was upsetting, it was a good thing to do. I just need to keep moving forward.”
“Well, come down to dinner in half an hour or so.” Ruby smiles. “That guy was awfully hot.”
“I know,” I grin. “He’s so hot.”
“What’s his name?”
“Oh.” Now I can feel my own face heating up, and I fib. “I can’t remember. He said it in the meeting, but I didn’t want to tell him when we met up that I didn’t remember it. I’ll find out tomorrow at the meeting.”
And I’d find out a lot more, if I possibly can.
Chapter 7
I dress the next morning with the meeting in mind. Narrow black jeans and cuffed heeled boots that make my already-long legs look like forever, a sweater tunic I’ve never worn before that Ruby gave me for Christmas, supposedly matching my eyes; and my hooded old coat to cover it all up whenever I want to hide. But I don’t want to hide, this time. Not today. Because I’m seeing Hot Motorcycle Guy at lunch, and then I’m going to meet a famous modeling agency owner after school.
I’m not worried about what I look like for Dr. Rosenfeld. The woman wears Birkenstocks with socks underneath, for God’s sake.
The morning flies by. School’s actually not so bad when I’m paying attention, and at recess the girls from yesterday’s lunch wave me over again to their middle-position table under a tree with all the leaves already gone, but some little round hard-looking nuts still stuck on it. I point up into the bare branches. “What kind of tree is this?”
“Horse chestnut. You gotta watch out, the wind sometimes knocks those off and they can hurt,” one of the girls, Kayla, says.
“Are those from the song, “chestnuts roasting on an open fire?’“ I ask.
She looks at me curiously. “Where did you say you’re from?”
“Saint Thomas. Virgin Islands. We don’t have horse chestnuts there. Lots of coconuts, though.”
“Oh, that’s so cool,” she squeals. “Do you have pictures? Is it as beautiful as they say?”
“Probably more beautiful,” I say, thinking of the water of Magen’s Bay, so close to my childhood home, a turquoise so clear it shimmered, lit as if from within by the sun’s reflection off the white sand bottom. “It’s pretty boring to live there though.”
“How could it be boring?” Another girl, Megan, asks, leaning into my personal space with bubble-gum breath.
I end up telling stories about life on the island until the bell rings. “I can’t sit with you at lunch today,” I say, feeling some actual regret. It’s been nice having people to sit with, talk to, who weren’t treating me like slime. “I have an appointment. See you tomorrow, though?”
And we end up exchanging phone numbers.
Things are definitely looking up. Maybe I’m not as socially doomed as I’d thought.
Lunch rolls around and I just about jog to the vintage BMW that’s one of Rafe’s collection. This one’s not restored yet. It’s not like the guy doesn’t have enough to do, but he likes to buy old cars and tinker with them and fix them up. Ruby’s driving a convertible Jag he fixed up and gave her for her birthday that about made my jaw drop.
Still this one runs, and it’s a Beamer, which isn’t a bad thing to be seen driving, so I’m feeling pretty swank as I pull up at the church parking lot where they hold the meeting. Mostly I’m dying to see Hot Motorcycle Guy again.
I sit in my usual spot, saying “hi” to a few people, and try not to keep looking around for him. The meeting gets started with the usual ritual protocols of Serenity Prayer and reading some quotes, then we get underway with sharing.
And Hot Motorcycle Guy never appears.
I cycle rapidly through the stages of grief I have the misfortune of knowing from Dad’s all-too-recent death. First, denial: “He’s in the bathroom. He’s coming any minute. There’s no way he’s not coming after that kiss. No one blows me off like this.” Halfway through the meeting I find myself bargaining: “I’ll be good if he just shows up. I won’t just jump his bones. I’ll be hard to get, a real lady if he doesn’t dump me before we even get going.” Anger comes next, and I mentally swear a blue streak and pick at my jeans, tearing a hole in the knee as the endless meeting progresses. Finally, after I’ve briefly reported to the group that my bruises are better and I’m going to therapy for the attack, I realize I’ve accepted that he isn’t there, and the meeting was okay anyway.
I feel exhausted, though, as I get my paper signed, and I have a couple more hours of class and then the modeling meeting.
I can’t stand the thought of going back to school so I cut for the first time, going straight home after the meeting. After all, I need to look good for Brandon’s battleax of a mother.
No one’s home, as I knew they wouldn’t be. Even Mrs. Knightly comes in later in the afternoon, so I revel in a bath and scrub myself all over with a loofah sponge. The bruises from the attack are still lurid, and I go gentle on those areas, but there’s no denying I feel 100% better after I get out, buffed and clean, and rub myself all over with baby oil.
I’ve read up on modeling a bit since this opportunity appeared, and I know we have to start with the blank canvas of my un-made-up face. She’ll need to see me without enhancement.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t make sure my skin and hair is as good as it can be.
I’ve already washed my hair and put on a super conditioner. I bl
ow-dry it into a welter of luscious curls with a diffuser and slather on a clay mask. I lie down in my thin cotton robe with a couple of slices of cucumber over my eyes to tighten any puffiness.
I must have dropped off to sleep because next thing I know, a deep chiming wakes me up. I sit up and the cucumber slices fall off.
The chime comes again. It’s more like a peal of bells, I decide.
It’s the front door. Someone’s there.
I try to remember when the last time was that I was home alone and had to answer the door, and realize it’s never happened before.
I can’t go answer the door looking like this.
I run across my room and glance out my window, which overlooks the street and the door. I don’t know what I was expecting to see, but it’s not a black Harley parked on the sidewalk in front and the top of Hot Motorcycle Guy’s head as he rings the bell again.
I run out of my bedroom, hop on the curving banister, and slide down to the entry, smooth as snot. I run across the black-and-white marble of the entry and yank open one side of the huge door.
He’s walking back down the steps.
“Hey!” I yell.
He turns, and busts into a huge grin at the sight of me. I realize I’ve never seen him smile. “Nice get-up.”
I wrap my arms around myself, aware that my robe is printed with cats in various poses, I’m barefoot and naked under the robe, and I have a mud mask on my face that’s beginning to flake off like something out of Night of the Living Dead.
“Hey. I don’t know what to call you,” I say. He comes back up the steps.
“Magnus.”
“Magnus? What kind of name is that?”
“Roman. I think.”
“Do you have a last name?”
He’s reached the top step and is smiling down at me. “I think you lost something,” he says, and lifts a cucumber slice off my robe and holds it out to me on his finger. “Here.”
I feel a world-class blush roar up my body and I’m grateful the damn mask hides it. I snatch the cucumber off his finger and throw it in the bushes. “What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t make it to the meeting. Wanted to make sure you knew I didn’t blow you off.”
“Okay. Come in. I can’t stand out here in my robe.” I withdraw into the house. He follows me. Looks around.
“Nice place.”
“Yeah. My brother-in-law’s. I’m Pearl. Pearl Michaels.” I stick a hand out.
His dark eyes are sparkling with mirth as he takes my hand. “Magnus Thorne.”
“That’s a great name.”
“My parents thought so.”
“Well, thanks for coming by. It was a good meeting.” As if I didn’t spend the whole meeting wondering where he was and torturing myself.
“Yeah. I had a work thing. Wanted to get your number.”
“Oh.”
We look at each other. In spite of my mask and goofy outfit, I can feel the air crackling with the energy we seem to spontaneously generate. “Um, it’s right here.”
I turn to the old-fashioned rotary phone Rafe keeps on a little marble stand with a pad for messages. I copy the number, hand it to him. “Here.”
“And here’s mine. In case you’re ever tempted to slip again.” He hands me a card. I glance down at it. MAGNUS THORNE and a number are printed on it. Nothing else. Who has a card like this? And I don’t like that he’s trying to set himself up as my program buddy. I don’t want him for that.
“What do you do, Magnus Thorne?”
“A little of this, a little of that,” he says evasively. “Well, I just stopped in to say hi and get your number. You look like you’re getting ready for a big evening.”
“A modeling interview,” I find myself saying. “I don’t usually primp like this.”
“I know.” He winks. “But then, you don’t need to.”
“Nice of you to say so, but this is different.”
“I imagine. Well, I better go.”
“I wish you didn’t have to.” I gaze at him and pout, thinking about kissing him. His nostrils flare. He can tell what I’m thinking about.
“You’re adorable. But no.” He flicks a crumbled bit of mask off my shoulder. “Knock ‘em dead. I’ll see you at the next meeting, and call me if you feel tempted.”
“Tempted. Interesting choice of words,” I say, and he laughs as he goes out the door and shuts it firmly.
I glance at the clock. “Shit!” It’s one-thirty and Brandon is picking me up at two-fifteen. I race up the stairs and into the bathroom.
Chapter 8
It takes every one of the remaining forty-five minutes to get the mask out of all my pores, smooth everything, finish my hair, and get into my black outfit. I also pack a sundress and grab an evening gown out of Ruby’s closet in case Melissa wants to see me in different clothes. I’m waiting in the foyer when Brandon drives up in an older Mercedes that I’m guessing belongs to his mom. I hurry down the stairs and pat Odin and Beowulf’s heads for luck.
Brandon inhales deeply as I slide into the car and put the clothing bag between my feet. “You smell like baby oil. And you look amazing.”
“Oh, yeah.” I’m blushing again, dammit. “I buffed my skin really nice in case your mom wants to take some photos. I know I can’t wear makeup but I thought I’d try to look my best.”
“Melissa. She goes by Melissa. I’m not allowed to call her Mom.” He puts the car in gear and we glide away from the sidewalk. “I’m glad you wore what you did, and no makeup. An initial shoot and interview are interfered with by makeup and distracting clothes.”
“I know. I did a little reading.”
“So did you change your mind about wanting to do this?”
“I like the idea of it being challenging,” I say with total honesty. “This is going to sound bad, but I’m always the prettiest girl. I want to see how I measure up against the best.”
Brandon slants me a glance from those intriguing hazel eyes, and it’s both hot and speculative. “Competitive, are you?”
“I guess.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. Keep the confidence going. All the successful models I know have attitude.”
The Melissa Agency is located on the twentieth floor of a sliver building. That’s what I call it, because the arc of it looks as seamless as poured mercury. Whizzing up in the elevator, I take Brandon’s arm and press close, feeling nervous. He smiles down at me. “I’ve never brought a girl to meet my mother before.”
“Oh, God. Really? But it’s not like we’re a couple or something.”
He shrugs, and I realize, looking into those warm hazel eyes, that he’s interested in me. I wonder why it took so long to sink in. And I like him, a lot. He’s nice and he rescued me, and he’s probably a whole lot better idea for a girl like me than a bad boy in black leather named Magnus Thorne.
The elevator opens into an atrium-like entry filled with pots and pots of hothouse orchids. Paper birds hang on invisible filaments and flutter on the unseen breeze. It should be a little cheesy; instead it’s enchanting. The receptionist behind a modern arc of desk inscribed with The Melissa Agency looks up at us. She’s totally gorgeous and should be a model herself. I feel a quiver of doubt, looking at her wide brown eyes, high cheekbones and shiny smile. I’m a long way from Kansas, also known as Saint Thomas.
“Brandon! This the new girl we’ve got booked in?”
“Sure is. This is Pearl Michaels.”
The receptionist leads us into another area surrounded by closed doors marked with titles: Hair, Makeup, Clothing, Runway, Studio mark just a few. At the far end of the hall, I spot the sanctum sanctorum, marked by brass script spelling out Melissa.
“Brandon. Geez. What’s it like to have someone like this for a mom?” I whisper, clutching his arm.
“You’re not the only one to go to therapy,” he says, with a wink. He drops a kiss on the top of my head. “You’ll be fine. Knock ‘em dead.” He hands me over to
the receptionist, whose smile congeals when she sees his gesture to me.
“We have you booked with a photographer for an initial shoot,” she says. “Good you don’t have makeup on and your clothes are okay. So I’ll just send you to Hair.” She knocks on that marked door.
“Come in!”
I enter, and a towering black woman, working on a stunning brunette in one of her two chairs, smiles at me. “Come have a seat.”
I sit in the remaining chair, and in a moment she’s sifting her hands through my hair. “My name’s Francine.”
“I’m Pearl.”
“Good healthy hair, Pearl. This looks like natural color.”
“It is.”
“Well, I see you have some natural curl. I’ll just throw it in some hot rollers and give it a little more body.”
The brunette, her head in a hood, leans out to wave at me. “Cynthia Twining.” She has a British accent.
“Pearl Michaels.”
“You come here a lot?”
“First time. I’m... auditioning, I guess you call it?” I scrunch my nose, unsure.
“Oh, a modeling virgin,” Francine tosses my hair, using her fingers as if they were salad tongs. “I’ll give you my two cents. Don’t freeze up in front of the camera. Think of that clicking shutter as your boyfriend’s eye on you, and show him all the best parts. Seduce that camera. Make it want you.”
“Oh,” I say faintly. Cynthia smiles from her chair.
“Francine knows what she’s talking about. She’s been here at Melissa for ages, making us look beautiful.”
“It’s a tough job,” Francine quips, and we both laugh.
The makeup woman comes in when my hair is done and checks me over. She daubs some seemingly-invisible makeup on my face with a sponge.
“You have good skin,” she says. “But I can tell you’ve been in the sun.”
“I grew up on Saint Thomas.” Until this moment, I thought having a tan was a good thing.
