Just Listen

by Sarah Dessen

  “It will be your turn,” Mallory, who was now in a gold bathing-suit top and sarong, the boa over her shoulders, told Angela. “But Workplace Classy is very important. Someone has to do it.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  Mallory sighed, blowing her bangs out of her face. “Because my look is better suited to evening,” she explained as the redheads, who’d moved on to swimwear, practiced for the beach action shots by tossing a soccer ball back and forth. “With your glasses, you look better doing serious corporate looks.”

  I glanced at Angela, whose upper lip was now trembling slightly. “You know,” I said, “maybe she could take off her glasses.”

  “I’m ready!” Elinor said to Owen. “Go ahead! Get the shot!”

  Owen, who was standing in front of the couch, winced as he lifted the camera to his eye. In my experience, models did not ever boss the photographer, but that was clearly not the case here. Instead, Owen just kept his finger on the shutter pretty much nonstop, taking shot after shot as the girls arranged themselves every which way. Now, as Elinor blew a kiss to the camera, and to him, he looked appalled.

  As a stylist, I’d been told it was my job to stay in the powder room/dressing area and supervise wardrobe, which consisted of the piles of clothing and shoes that were scattered on the countertops, floor, and nearby stairs. After my few early suggestions—less cleavage and makeup, for starters—had been completely ignored, I’d been mostly watching Owen and trying not to laugh.

  “You know,” he said now, as Elinor dropped to the floor and began to writhe toward him, her elbows clunking across the hardwood, “I’m thinking we’re about done here.”

  “But we haven’t even gotten the group shots!” Mallory said.

  “Then you better get those together,” he told her. “Your stylist and photographer get paid by the hour, and you can’t afford us for much longer.”

  “Okay, fine,” Mallory grumbled, tossing her boa over one shoulder. “Everyone together in front of the backdrop, now!”

  The redheads grabbed their ball and headed over, while Elinor got to her feet, pulling up her tube top again. I looked at Angela, who was standing in the archway to the living room, arms crossed over her chest, her upper lip seriously shaking now. Three could be a crowd, I thought. But so could five.

  “Hey,” I said, and she turned around, looking at me. “Come on. Let’s get you into something else.”

  I could hear Mallory telling everyone how to stand as Angela followed me back to the powder room, where I surveyed the options. “This is cute,” I said, picking up a red skirt. “What do you think?”

  Angela sniffled, then reached up, adjusting her glasses. “It’s all right,” she said.

  “And maybe we can pair it with…” I glanced around, then grabbed a black top with spaghetti straps. “This. And some really high heels.”

  She nodded, taking the skirt from me. “Okay,” she said, starting down the hallway to the side bedroom there. “I’ll go change.”

  “You do that,” I told her. “I’ll find the shoes.”

  “Angela!” Mallory yelled. “We need you in here!”

  “Just a sec,” I called out, bending down and rummaging through the pile of shoes by my feet. I’d picked out one strappy sandal and was looking for its mate when I felt someone watching me. When I glanced up, Owen was standing there, holding the camera.

  “One sec,” I said. “We’re changing our look.”

  “I heard.” He stepped into the powder room, leaning against the door and watching me as I finally found the shoe, wedged under a puffy parka. “That was nice of you. Helping her out.”

  “Well,” I said, “modeling can be an ugly business.”

  “Yeah?”

  I nodded as I stood up, glancing down the hallway for Angela, then leaned against the opposite side of the doorframe, facing him, the shoes dangling from my hand. After a moment, he lifted up the camera to his eye. “Don’t,” I said, putting my hand over my face.

  “Why not?”

  “I hate having my picture taken.”

  “You’re a model.”

  “That’s why,” I told him. “It’s gotten old.”

  “Come on,” he said. “Just one.”

  I dropped my hand but didn’t smile as his finger moved to the shutter. Instead, I just looked at him, through the lens, as the flash popped. “Nice,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  He nodded, turning the camera over to look at the display on the back. I stepped closer, looking down at it as well. Sure enough, there I was, the doorframe behind me. My hair was unbrushed, a few strands loose around my face, I had on no makeup, and it wasn’t my best angle. It also wasn’t a bad picture. I moved in closer, studying my face, the faint light behind it.

  “See?” Owen said. I could feel his shoulder against mine, his face only inches away, as we both peered down at the image. “That’s what you look like.”

  I turned my head to say something to this—what, I had no idea—and his cheek was so close, right there. I looked up at him, and then, before I knew what was happening, he was turning his head slightly, bending down to me. I closed my eyes, and then his lips were right there, soft on mine, and I stepped closer, pressing myself against—

  “I’m ready for my shoes.”

  We both jumped, startled; Owen bonked his head on the doorframe. “Shit,” he said.

  Heart pounding, I looked down at Angela, who was staring up at us, her expression serious. “Shoes,” I said, handing them over. “Right.”

  Owen was rubbing his head, his eyes closed. “Man,” he said. “That smarts.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked. He nodded, and I reached out, touching his temple, then kept my fingers there for a moment, his skin warm, smooth to the touch, before taking my hand away.

  “Owen!” Mallory yelled from the living room. “We’re ready! Let’s go!”

  Owen pushed off the doorframe and started into the living room while Angela, now strapped into her shoes, slowly made her way along behind him. I stayed where I was for a moment, then glanced at myself in the powder-room mirror, amazed at what had just happened. I studied my reflection for a second, then stepped away from it, out of my own sight.

  When I got to the living room, all drama had been forgotten, and the group shot was in full swing, all five girls posing wildly as Owen moved dutifully around them. I leaned in the archway, watching as each girl vamped in her own way: a hip shimmy, an arched neck, fluttering lashes.

  The song playing in the background was the kind Owen hated: all poppy, bouncy beats, a girl’s perfectly engineered voice sliding effortlessly over the instruments. Mallory reached over to the CD player on the floor beside her, cranking the volume, and the girls all shrieked, beginning to dance, their hands waving over their heads. Owen stepped aside as they bounced and twirled, then turned the camera on me, holding it there as the girls blurred past between us. I wasn’t sure exactly what he was seeing, but now I had an idea. So this time, I smiled.

  When I pulled into my driveway later that night, all the lights in the house were off except in Whitney’s room. I could see her in the chair by her window, sitting with her feet tucked up under her. She had that same notebook open in her lap and was writing, her hand moving slowly across the page. For a moment I just sat there, watching her, the one thing I could make out in the dark.

  I’d left Owen’s just in time. Elinor, Angela, and the twins had tired of both the photo shoot and Mallory’s bossiness and were on the verge of some sort of fashion mutiny, the house was a wreck, and Owen’s mom—apparently a bit of a neat freak—was due home at any moment. I’d offered to stay and help clean up, or play peacemaker, but he declined.

  “I can handle it,” he said, as we stood on the front steps. “If I were you, I’d get out while I could. It’s only going to go downhill from here.”

  “So optimistic,” I said.

  “No,” he replied as, inside, I heard an indignant shriek, followed by a door slam
ming. He turned his head, glancing toward the door, then back at me. “Just realistic.”

  I smiled, then moved down one step, pulling my keys out of my pocket. “So I’ll see you at school, I guess.”

  “Yup,” he said. “See you then.”

  Neither of us moved and I wondered if he would kiss me again. “Okay,” I said, feeling my stomach flip-flop. “I’m, um, going.”

  “Right.” He stepped a little closer to the edge of the step where he was standing, and I moved forward on mine, meeting him halfway. As he leaned down to me and I closed my eyes, I could hear something, a thunk-thunk-thunk noise, growing both louder and closer. The doorknob rattled, and we both jumped back as Mallory, wearing thick wedge heels, a black catsuit, and the green boa, burst out onto the porch.

  “Wait!” she said, clomping across to me, her hand outstretched. “Here. These are for you.”

  She handed me a stack of pictures, so fresh from the printer I could smell ink. The one on the top was of her in her gold bathing-suit top, the shot taken close with the feathers from the boa framing her face, drifting upwards toward the edges. I flipped through the next few, which featured a couple of group poses, Elinor writhing on the floor and, finally, Angela in the outfit I’d picked out for her. “Wow,” I said. “These are great.”

  “They’re for your wall,” she said. “So you can look at me sometimes.”

  “Thank you,” I told her.

  “You’re welcome.” She turned to Owen. “Mom just called from the car. She’ll be home in ten minutes.”

  “Right.” Owen sighed. To me he said, “I’ll see you later.”

  I nodded, and then they were walking inside, where I could hear the other girls arguing, Mallory waving at me one last time before shutting the door. A moment later, he said something, and the girls quieted down, quick. By the time I started down the steps, I couldn’t hear a thing.

  Now, I got out of my car and started up the walk, Mallory’s pictures in my hand. The entire ride home all I’d been able to think about was Owen’s face, coming closer to mine, how it felt when he’d kissed me, barely long enough to count and yet still unforgettable. I felt my face flush as I pushed open the door, then started up the stairs.

  “Annabel?” Whitney called out when I got to the top. “Is that you?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m back.”

  As I reached for my door, hers opened and she stepped out into view. “Mom called again,” she said. “I told her you’d gone to a friend’s house. She asked who, but I said I didn’t know.”

  For a moment we just looked at each other, and I wondered if I was supposed to explain myself further. “Thanks,” I said finally as I pushed my door open and turned on the light. I put the pictures on the bureau, then shrugged off my coat, tossing it over my desk chair. When I turned back around, she was standing in my doorway.

  “I told her maybe you’d call her when you got in,” she said. “But you probably don’t have to.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  She shifted slightly, leaning against the doorjamb. As she did so, she saw the pictures. “What are these?” she asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” I said. “They’re just…they’re silly.”

  She picked them up, cradling them in her open hand as she worked through them, her expression moving from impassive to curious to, at one shot of Elinor sprawled on the floor, somewhat horrified.

  “My friend’s little sister was having a modeling slumber party,” I said, walking over to stand beside her as she kept moving through the stack. There were the redheads, side by side, doing a mirror-image pose, and Angela in her black dress, the dreaded Workplace Classy. There were a few more of Mallory as well, doing a full range of looks: pensive, dreamy, and, perhaps due to something Owen had just said, annoyed. “They get all dressed up and take shots of themselves.”

  Whitney paused to study a shot of Elinor in her white dress, looking pensive. “Wow,” she said. “That’s quite a look.”

  “It’s called Fantasy Engagement.”

  “Huh,” she said, flipping to the next picture, which was Elinor again, this time sprawled on the floor, mouth half open. “What’s that called?”

  “I don’t think that has a name,” I said.

  She withheld further comment, flipping to the next shot, which was of Mallory in a red top, facing the camera. Her lips were pursed, her eyelashes enormous. “She’s kind of cute,” she said, tilting the picture slightly. “Good eyes.”

  “Oh, God,” I said, shaking my head. “She’d die if she heard you say that.”

  “Really.”

  I nodded. “She’s model-obsessed. You should see her room. It’s all pictures from magazines, everywhere you look.”

  “She must have been thrilled you were there, then,” she said. “A real-live model.”

  “I guess,” I said, watching as she kept flipping, past a series of group shots: all the girls’ faces pressed together, then each of them looking a different direction, as if waiting for five separate buses. “It was kind of weird for me, actually.”

  Whitney was quiet for a second. Then she said, “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

  Like so much else that had happened that weekend, I found myself in this unexpected moment with my sister almost holding my breath. Finally I said, “I mean, we never did that, you know? When we were kids.”

  “We didn’t have to,” she said as Angela’s picture came up, her dark eyes so serious, skin pale in the camera’s flash. “We had the real thing.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But this might have been more fun. Less pressure, anyway.”

  I felt her cut her eyes at me as I said this, and too late I realized she thought I was talking about her. I waited for her to snap or say something nasty, but she didn’t, instead just handing me back the pictures. “Well,” she said. “I guess we’ll never know.”

  As she stepped out into the hallway I looked down at the pictures; Mallory’s boa shot was back on top. “Sleep well,” I said.

  “Yeah.” She glanced over at me, the light behind her, and I was struck by the simple perfection of her cheekbones and lips, so striking and accidental all at once. “Good night, Annabel.”

  Later, when I got into bed, I picked up the pictures again, then sat back in bed, flipping through them. After going through the stack twice, I got out of bed and went to my desk, digging around in the top drawer until I found some pushpins. Then I tacked the pictures up, in rows of three, on the wall above my radio. So you can look at me sometimes, Mallory had said, and as I turned off my light I did just that. The moon, coming in, was slanted across them, making them bright, and I kept my eyes on them as long as I could. At some point, though, I could feel myself falling asleep, and I had to turn away, back to the dark.

  Chapter TWELVE

  My mother returned from her first vacation in over a year rested, manicured, and rejuvenated. Which would have been great, if her newfound energy hadn’t been directed at the one thing I least wanted to think about, but now could not avoid: the Lakeview Models Fall Fashion Show.

  “So you’ve got to be at Kopf’s today for a fitting, tomorrow for a rehearsal,” she said to me as I poked at my breakfast before school. “And the final run-through is on Friday. Your hair appointment is on Thursday, and I booked your nail stuff for Saturday morning, early. Okay?”

  After an entire weekend to myself, not to mention the last few months with very few work commitments, this did not sound okay. It sounded painful. But I didn’t say anything. As much as I was dreading the week and the show, at least I had something to look forward to afterwards, which was going to Bendo with Owen.

  “You know, something occurred to me this weekend,” my mom continued. “The Kopf’s people are probably just about to start casting for the spring campaign. So this show is a great opportunity for them to see you in person, don’t you think?”

  Hearing this, I felt a twinge of dread, knowing I should tell her I wanted to quit modeling. But then I had a flash of m
e and Owen on the wall, role-playing this very scenario, and how even when it was just a game I hadn’t been able to get the words out. Across from me, my mother was sipping her coffee, and I knew that this, right now, was the perfect moment. She’d dropped a sweater, and I could just pick it up. But like Rolly, I froze up. And stayed silent. I’d do it later, I told myself. After the show. I would.

  At the same time that I was walking down a runway at the mall, modeling winter clothes, my sister Kirsten would also be in front of a crowd, albeit for a different reason. The day before, she’d finally e-mailed her short piece to me as promised. Because I was used to Kirsten explaining—if not overexplaining—everything that was any part of her life whatsoever, the message she’d sent with it took me by surprise.

  Hi, Annabel, here it is. Let me know what you think. Love, K.

  At first, I’d actually scrolled down through the body of the e-mail, looking for the rest of the message—if my sister was long-winded on the phone, her e-mails were equally verbose. But there was nothing else.

  I hit the DOWNLOAD NOW button, then watched as blue squares filled up the screen. When it was done, I clicked on PLAY.

  The first shot was of grass. Green, beautiful grass, just like the kind on the golf course across the street, i.e., totally chemically induced, filling the screen from one side to the other. Then the camera pulled back, back, to show it was the yard in front of a white house with pretty blue trim, and two figures on bikes blurred past.

  The camera cut, and we were suddenly facing two girls as they rode toward us. One, a blonde, looked to be about thirteen; the other, a brunette, was thinner and more slight, lagging a little bit behind.

  Suddenly the girl in front looked back at the other, then began pedaling faster, pulling away from her. As she did so, the camera cut back and forth between her pedaling, wind blowing back her hair, and pretty images of the neighborhood: a dog asleep on the sidewalk, a man picking up his paper, the blue, blue sky, a sprinkler sending water in an arc over a flower bed. As she kept on, picking up speed, the images came faster and faster, repeating, until the camera cut to a shot of the road ahead, coming to a T. She skidded to a stop, then turned around. Behind her, in the distance, you could just see a bike lying in the middle of the road, one wheel spinning, the smaller girl sitting beside it, holding her arm.