It had only been an hour since I washed my hair, and already, my bangs looked greasy and I swore my chin was breaking out the closer we got to the mall. I thought about pretending to get explosive diarrhea (nobody would accuse me of lying if I admitted to something super gross), but I knew Ericka would get mad at me if I backed out now. Tori was super quiet, so I asked her if she was nervous, too. She looked like she was going to puke, but she straightened her back and said she was fine.
There was already a line when we got to the American Ingénue table. The organizers made us wait the full time before they had us fill out forms. Then some lady, who smelled like cinnamon and cigarettes, took a picture of each of us and gave us stickers with numbers on them.
“Great, I got unlucky thirteen,” Tori said. “Anyone wanna trade? Landry?”
I had number twelve, and I offered to trade with her since I knew I wouldn’t get picked anyway. Besides, I didn’t even know if I wanted to be chosen. I hated being singled out. I wouldn’t even yell “Bingo” when we played in social studies. Ericka pulled out a compact and started pushing her finger against her eyelashes.
“Did you get something in your eye?” I asked.
“Duh, I’m trying to curl my lashes,” she said. “It opens up your eyes.”
Ericka wasn’t allowed to wear eye makeup, but her mom had gotten her some medicated foundation to cover up her blemishes. Her makeup looked caked on as it tried to cover up her bumpy complexion. She was allowed to wear nail polish, although for some reason it was always chipped around the edges. It was weird, but I didn’t think I’d ever seen her wearing fresh polish. Tori wasn’t into makeup, but she already had rosy cheeks and lips and pretty gray eyes, so she didn’t need much. However, I had skin the color of a dead goldfish, and my eyes were pretty uninteresting as far as blue eyes go. My mom said I was lucky to have such light blonde hair, but if you asked me, it was way too pale. Ericka called it “albino blonde.” I looked like I needed a blood transfusion without blush, and mascara kept me from looking like a newborn baby chicken.
“Okay, I need numbers one through twenty to line up,” the cinnamon/cigarette lady said, gesturing towards a big velvet curtain. More girls had begun showing up, and now the line stretched all the way down to the Mr. Fluffy Muffin Man counter. The Perry Mall probably hadn’t seen so many people since they had “free donut day.” I asked the woman in charge when we got our tote bags. I did not get there two hours early to go home without a tote bag. She snapped her gum, and she said we could pick them up after our turn on the runway.
“What runway?” I asked. Tori pointed out they had cleared some tables off in front of the curtain to make a platform. I walked to the front and looked out from behind the curtain. The tables were now part of a runway, and there were folding chairs set up for the audience to watch. It was just mall walkers and parents, but they were still people who were going to watch me walk… in heels. The competition was for girls between the ages of thirteen and seventeen, but it felt like Ericka, Tori, and I were the youngest ones there. I only saw a couple of girls from school, and the lineup looked more like something you’d see on a music video set. All the girls were gorgeous, and they had these curvy womanly bodies. I looked like a skinny little kid next to them. The first girl walked out, and I heard the judges say she “owned the runway,” and, “walked like a gazelle.” I was starting to feel ill. I wasn’t sure which way it was going to come, but I knew I had to find a bathroom — fast. I started to get out of line when Ericka grabbed my wrist.
“It’s almost time,” she said. A tiny bit of spit flew out of her mouth and hit my cheek.
I wasn’t sure why she was so intent on me going through with it, but she had a death grip on my arm, so I didn’t have much of a choice. Her number was called and she walked out to the stage. One of the other girls said she walked like a kid with sand bucket stilts on her feet, but she came back with a smirk on her face like she knew she’d get chosen.
“They said they had never seen such long legs,” she said.
Tori was next.
“She walks like a gorilla at feeding time,” said the girl behind me. I went next, and I tried to focus on not tripping over my feet. My mom’s pumps had a rubber sole on the bottom, which probably wasn’t the brightest idea seeing as my shoes were making squeaking noises as I walked. I was so nervous I couldn’t stop smiling as I walked. I looked like the plastic clown who blows up balloons with its mouth at the Pizza Palace. When I got to the end of the runway, I tried to cross my feet to turn like the other girls had, but I over rotated and ended up doing a full spin which made my kilt fan out and gave the mall walkers a view of my blue underpants. I tried to act like it was intentional and did an extra turn. One of the judges put her hand up to stop me, and I held my breath as she started to speak.
“Nice improvisation,” she said. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself. Thank you, we’ll let you know.”
I hoped it meant they thought I twirled like an idiot on purpose. Oh well, I didn’t fall. I just hoped my panties didn’t show too much. At least it was the good pair. I felt pretty good about myself… until I went backstage and Ericka said, “Real models don’t smile.” I didn’t know any better. I was just lucky I didn’t wet myself or fall off the stupid runway.
We went back to the registration area and got our free tote bags and makeup samples, which were just little smears of blush, lipstick, and eye shadow on tiny cards. What a waste. There wasn’t enough lipstick on the card to put on a doll. I was hoping we’d get to shop for a little while, but Mrs. Maines wanted to leave right away. I was home by two o’clock and spent the rest of the day reading my old copies of Teen Vogue and trying to picture myself on the cover. Somehow I just couldn’t see myself on the cover of any magazine. At least I had something interesting to write about on my blog. Mine were always so boring the only person who bothered to comment on them (or even read them) was my dad. Nothing makes you look cooler than having “Way to go, kiddo! Love, Dad” in your comment section.
I had pretty much given up on any hope of having a modeling career until Sunday night when the phone rang. A woman named Celine Myeski called and asked for me. She said “Congratulations,” and I thought I won free muffins from the Mr. Fluffy Muffin Man stand because I always enter their “Win Free Muffins for a Month” contest, but she was calling about the Ingénue tryouts.
“You’ve been chosen to advance to the next round in the competition. The next segment will take place in Lansing,” Mrs. Myeski said. She told me there would also be an ad in the local newspaper with the Grand Rapids finalists’ pictures.
“A lot of agents and managers participate in this competition, so even if you don’t get picked for the show, there’s still a good chance you might find an agent,” she said. She needed to talk to one of my parents to make sure I could continue in the competition, so I put my mom on the phone and I ran to get the cell phone. Tori wasn’t home when I called, so I tried Ericka next.
“Guess what? I got a call from the show, and they’re moving me on to the next level! Isn’t it amazing?”
“Seriously? You made it?” Ericka asked. “I hope they don’t call me. I would hate to have to go through more stupid auditions. I mean, I just wanted a tote bag, ya know?”
I wanted to point out she had been the one who had dragged me to the mall in the first place.
“The next round is in Lansing, and I’m—”
“—Landry, my mom needs to use the phone,” she said and hung up.
My mom came into the room. “Mrs. Myeski said we would get a discount on the hotel room since you’re part of the show. If you want to go then I guess I could take off work the day before and we could drive to Lansing.”
I think Mom expected me to start jumping up and down, but instead I headed to the bathroom. I was going to have to bring some extra strength stomach stuff when I went to Lansing. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do it. It would be a lot easier to say, “My mom wouldn’t let me go,” and
have everybody wonder what could have happened than for me to go and fail… or worse, fall flat on my face on TV.
“Hon,” my mom said through the door. “Mrs. Myeski said if you advanced again then the next show would be in Detroit, and it would be televised in Michigan. If you move on again, then they’ll fly you out to New York and you get to be on national television.”
Anyone who watched American Ingénue knew they didn’t show the whole tryout process on TV, but they did show clips — like somebody falling or tripping or acting stuck up. I knew the chances of me making it past this round weren’t good, but there was this little voice in the back of my head which made me wonder, What if this was my big chance?
Best Friends...Forever? Page 21
