Braless in Wonderland (16 page)

It was getting hotter in here. I loved the candy on this thing, this drink, this pink—

“Hey, biatch, this the one you were so worried about?” It was Luca Loco. He didn't need to shout. His voice was so deep, it was almost Darth Vader. His arm was hooked around Brynn's neck in a headlock. I bet he beat her. “This the one, biatch?”

“YEAH, BUT FORGET ABOUT IT,” Brynn answered. “SHE'S NO COMPETITION FOR ME, ARE YOU, YALE? LAST MONTH YOU COULDN'T EVEN BOOK RESERVATIONS, RIGHT? KIDDING, KIDDING. YOU KNOW I DON'T—”

“YEAH, YEAH, YOU DON'T FILTER,” I yelled, cutting her off. “I KNOW ALREADY.” She blinked, surprised. Ha. I held up my empty glass. “UM, EXCUSE ME, ANOTHER DRINKOLA HERE?” Something about the way that came out made all of them laugh. I laughed too, but what was so funny? “IT WAS MY BIRTHDAY.”

“WHAT, TODAY?” Brynn screamed.

“NO. LAST MONTH.”

“WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SOMETHING?”

“I FIGURED YOU'D BE OBNOXIOUS ABOUT IT.” I never once thought about Brynn being obnoxious about it. But right now I felt like telling her she was obnoxious.

“Her? Obnoxious?” Loco said with affection, winking a hooded eye. “Never.”

Brynn punched him in the arm. “SHUT UP, YOU FRIGGIN' MORON. GET THIS GIRL SOME CHAMPAGNE, FA CHRIS-SAKES.”

 

I was drunk. And making out with a cute guy. He'd told me his name but it was so loud in here I couldn't hear him. These couches in the VIP lounge were pretty comfy. “GET A ROOM!” Miguel screamed at us, sitting down on the couch across from ours. Dimitri and Elmo-hair joined him. They'd all been dancing on the bar a minute ago.

I'd just gone into the bathroom and run into Elmo-hair in there (not sure if it was men's or women's—there were guys and girls in there and one transvestite wearing a nautical sailor dress who introduced herself as Mandy Lifeboats). Elmo-hair and I hugged like old friends. I didn't care that he hadn't booked me for that German catalog. I loved him right now. I even loved Brynn for popping open that champagne bottle. I also loved the taste of this Jolly Rancher drink.

April the Great had been in the bathroom too. I gave her a big hello even though she barely looked at me, like she didn't even know me. But I didn't care, because you know what? Drinking made me one friendly girl. Just ask The Cute Guy I Just Made Out With Even Though I Don't Know His Name. Now April was in the VIP room with us. She was dancing on the bar.

I pointed to her, leaned forward, and screamed to Miguel, “WE JUST DID A JOB TOGETHER AND SHE'S PRETENDING SHE DOESN'T KNOW ME.”

He shrieked back, “TYPICAL. SHE'S SO MEET, GREET, DELETE.”

Where was The Cute Guy I Just Made Out With Even Though I Don't Know His Name going? He'd just said something to me but I couldn't hear a word of it. He was gone. Now it was down to me, Miguel, Elmo-hair, and Dimitri. We decided to go to the Delano hotel pool bar for drinks. Well, they decided, but I was in. I didn't know where Claudette or Brynn had gone.

Brynn had yelled, “Hey, Allee, I'm going to the bathroom. You wanna come?” I was gonna go with her, but Miguel asked me to stay with him for some reason and pulled me away, and after a couple of Jolly Rancher drinks I lost them, right around when Prince showed up in the VIP room. Summer got her picture taken with him for
Ocean Drive
magazine. She was still sitting with him and his entourage on one of the couches when we left.

 

Inside the Delano, it was dim, with candles and curtains everywhere. Tonight it was a fuzzy Wonderland, like I was dreaming this fashion show of pretty, shiny people in their pretty, shiny clothes: open necklines down to the belly button, sandals laced up to the knee, tattoos, body jewelry, short little dresses like mine. My wastoid eyes couldn't take it all in.

In the pool, two chairs and a table rose out of the shallow end. The life-size chess set was lit up on the grass. I swayed. The tiki torches were getting blurry.

“Allee, you okay?” Miguel asked.

I sank down onto an empty deck chair and curled up into a nice, cozy ball. Mmmm. Sleep.

“Get her an espresso,” said Dimitri.

They sat me up and ordered one, plus a round of mojitos for themselves and nachos with salsa. I hogged the nachos, suddenly starving. They were really salty and good, but then I got queasy. Very queasy.

Uh-oh. I didn't feel so good. Elmo-hair's hair hurt my eyes. It looked like there were two of him. I blinked hard.

He'd just asked me a question. I wasn't listening. “What'd you say? And is my sweaty all forehead?”

“Ya, a little. I said, we would have put you on option, but we couldn't remember your name or your agency, and you didn't leave a comp card. We had nothing. What happened?”

“Ve had nussink,” I parroted. “Vat hapnd?” I sounded so funny. Why wasn't he laughing too? He looked all pinchy-faced.

Miguel slapped my wrist. Hard. “Allee, you didn't leave your comp?”

“I gonna kill you!” Dimitri yelled.

Whoa. The room was spinning. There was a sour taste in my mouth.

Hold on. Focus. I might have been drunk, but I remembered handing my comp to the lady who took my Polaroid. “I left a comp.”

“No, you didn't.” But I was sure I did. Someone at Scarlett Print Productions must have lost it. I wanted to tell Elmo-hair, tell them all, but I was…

Nauseous now. Extremely.

Oooh, God.

Very sick now.

Very sick.

My tongue was growing algae. And I decided this bathroom floor was made of ice cubes, not tiles. But at least it was near the toilet. And at least I wasn't sweating or shaking as much as I was before, so the worst must have been over, the poison all gone now.

Nope. Nope, it wasn't. Here we go again.

“Christ on the cross,” moaned Brynn when I was done. How long had she been standing there? “Sounds like you puked up a lung that time, Allee.” She wet a washcloth and handed it to me.

I wiped my face. “What time is it?”

“Almost six. My call time's in a half hour.” She said it quietly, trying not to wake Claudette. Summer hadn't come home last night. It wasn't the first time. When Brynn didn't come home, we knew she was with Luca, staying at a club all night, but when Summer didn't come home, she never told us where she slept. She was probably Prince's new drummer by now.

Brynn was in her version of pj's: sweatpants, socks, a sweatshirt with the hood up, eye mask on her forehead. She brushed her teeth, put in eyedrops. “You want crackers?” she asked, yawning. “I have some in my model bag. They help.” I nodded, stunned to hear she owned food. She brought them to me and I took a mouse bite. My mouth was so dry the cracker felt like pencil shavings. But she was right. It helped.

I was about to get up for water when Brynn filled a paper cup from the faucet and gave it to me. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

“Because you don't like me.”

“Who says I don't like you? Well, maybe I don't like you a little bit. But you're growing on me.”

“I am?”

“Yeah, I gotta give it up. You weren't a complete pain in the ass last night.”

“Thanks.” My stomach rolled over with a loud gurgle. “Uch, I'm never drinking again. Never ever never ever again.”

“You didn't pace yourself, you lightweight. I've done that.” She leaned in to the mirror, inspecting her face. “You ever, uh, party with anything harder than drinks?”

“You mean, like drugs?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“You wanna try anything?” She tapped her nose. “I got some in my makeup kit, right here.”

Holy shiitake mushrooms, she had cocaine in there!

“No, thank you.”

I'd never been this close to a severely illegal drug before. This was serious. I had to get out of here. Now. Any second a police officer could barge in here and yell, “Freeze! Miami Vice!” and I'd wind up in the joint. Okay, not probable, but there was a one percent chance it could happen. Time to flee, vamoose, giddyup.

Except I stood up way too fast and was hit with a dizzy rush. I slid back down to the floor. So she did coke. That explained the sniffing and how jittery she got sometimes.

Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “Now that's ruining the nice little moment we're having here, see.”

“What?”

“That look you're giving me.”

“Sorry.”

“I'm cutting back, just so's you know. I just need a couple lines for today. This client's making me jump on a trampoline, so I better rev up the engine.” She put everything carefully away in her makeup bag, then pulled out a tube of Preparation H. This time I managed to stand all the way up. I definitely didn't want to be around for what she was going to do next. Crime was one thing, but bodily—oh, wait, she was only smearing it under her eyes.

Still, I couldn't leave. Too many questions. Like how often did she ski with Lady Snow? Was she an addict? Was I the only one who just says no? “Does Summer do it too?”

“What, this?” She held up the Preparation H. “Probably. It's the best for shrinking puffy eye bags.”

“No. The, uh, the other thing.”

“Oh. Nah, she doesn't smoke and she doesn't even drink much. Claudie used to do a bump now and then, but she stopped.” Our eyes met in the mirror like they did before. “Listen, Allee, I don't have a problem. It's recreational, or if I need a boost for work, like now, or if I need to stay awake at night or not eat before a bathing suit casting. I take it as needed. Like a medicine. You get what I'm saying?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, just recreational, I get it.”

“Good. So you don't have to be like that, all judgmental and crap. It's not like you didn't know. A smart chick like you, you musta picked up on it by now.”

The smart chick had no idea. And it had been going on right under my nose. No pun intended.

 

Whoever it was better go away. It was bad enough that some idiot was knocking at the door on a Sunday morning. I was in Summer's bunk on top of her pink comforter with a magazine sticking to my face. I didn't have the strength to climb up to my own. O dear, sweet, loving Hangover Gods, make that knocking stop. I needed more sleep.

Good, Claudette was getting it. The door opened, letting in a shaft of light, or an ice pick stabbing my head, I wasn't sure which. Claudette answered it and said, “Allee, for you,” and went back to her bunk. The door was open, but I couldn't see who it was. It better not be my parents. They were always asking when they could come down and visit. What if they decided to surprise me? I popped up jack-in-the-box style, banged my head on the top bunk, squinted toward the light, stumbled over shoes and clothes toward the door.

Whew. It was Lola, our next-door neighbor. She was a plus-size model who worked all the time. Today she was in her signature Salvation Army look—a patchwork skirt, woven top, and those Pocahontas moccasin lace-up boots that tree huggers wear when not in Birkenstocks. Anyone else would have looked homeless in those clothes, but pretty Lola could totally pull it off. Think larger-size Olsen twin.

“Allee, what happened to you? You look like the girl from
The Exorcist
. Or maybe
The Ring
.” A distorted, alienlike image of myself in her sunglasses squinted back at me: scraggly, tangled hair; pale skin; dark circles; long, shapeless T-shirt; unexplained scrapes on my knees. “So, which is it? Were you, like, possessed by the devil, or did you just crawl out of a well?”

I couldn't even answer her. My head was pounding.

“Cool.” She handed me a package. “Sorry, I forgot to give this to you. It got delivered to me by mistake.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking the package from her.

“Peace out.” She went back to her apartment.

I opened it. It was a minidress, royal blue, stretchy, with an intricate crisscross of panels and tiny diamond-shaped cutouts all over it. The inside of the dress was emerald green. I thought it might be reversible. Under more tissue paper (by the way, tissue paper is really loud when you have a hangover), there was a skin-colored slip—I guess to show through the cutouts and give the illusion of nudity. It was incredible.

I read the card.
I made this for you. It's my design. It's reversible. And thanks for the necklace. The beads match my eyes. Love, Sabrina
.

The Fluff made this? And designed it herself? It looked like a top-designer dress from one of the high-end boutiques around here, not like a ninth grader from Cape Comet made it.

Someone had to have helped her. Except my mother didn't know how to sew. And Sabrina wouldn't write a lie on the card.

She made this, she really did.

Maybe I'd have to rethink calling her The Fluff.

Because some definite brain activity had gone into the making of this.

 

There was a group of guy models standing around in their underwear in the conference room. I could see them through the glass wall, all in identical tighty-whities. Miguel was Polaroiding them. Each one was more ripped than the next. I'd never seen so many six-pack abs in one room. Or tight buns. “Fruit of the Loom casting,” said Tina, a men's booker, answering my curiosity.

Dimitri, hot as ever with a dark tan and scruffy face, was leaning out the back window yelling into his cell phone. “Do you hear this sound?!” He dropped a stack of some girl's comps into the alley. Some of them flew off into the wind. “That is the sound of your composite cards hitting the pavement, you
putana vlakas
.” Okay, I didn't know what a
putana vlakas
was, but it had to be bad. “You take a booking behind my back, direct, without going through me? This is how you repay me after everything I've done for you? Listen. Here goes your book.” He dropped a portfolio out the window. A homeless lady put it into her shopping cart.

Miguel came out of the conference room and handed the camera to another booker. “Your turn.” He kissed me hello. “Hooee, I don't know about you, but I need some cold water. Did you see Frederico? That's a whole lotta man. And Tex?
Ay, mi madre
, everything really is bigger in Texas, you know what I'm saying?” I did see Tex. I knew what he was saying.

“Any castings for me?” I asked.

He sat down at his desk, chugged a bottle of water. “Let's pull up your chart.” He started typing, concentrating on his computer screen.

Dimitri was still yelling into his cell. “When I found you, you were nobody. You were a sandwich girl at Subway.
Sto Diavolo!
”

“Sandwich artist,” said Miguel, looking up at Dimitri. “They prefer to be called sandwich artists. I worked there in high school.” Dimitri shot Miguel a murderous look. God, he was sexy.

Miguel touched the hem of my skirt. “Is that a Betsey?” he asked.

“Nope. A Catherine Malandrino. Got it at SoBe Thrifty.”

“Ssshh, people will hear you. Don't be a bargain blabber. Except with me, of course. Hmph. Thought it was a Betsey.”

Kate marched up to Miguel's desk. “Hey, Hobbit.”

“May I help you?” Miguel asked sweetly.

“Did you put Allee on first option for Kohl's without checking with me first?”

“So what if I did?” Miguel said. “It's three days, a lot of money.”

“My client wants her for the same days.”

“It wasn't in the computer. Give your client a second option. We've got her first.”

“She's commercial, on
our
board. You're supposed to check with our division first before accepting any options.”

“Too bad.”

“Come on, mate. Let me have her.”

He flicked his hand at her. “Dis-missed.”

Her nostrils flared. “This would never happen at an agency in England.”

“Buh-bye.”

“That's the problem with you people. You have no manners!” She marched away.

“
We
have no manners?” Miguel called after her. “You people eat fish out of a newspaper!”

“Piss off!” she called back. “And don't ever put Allee on option for your bloody clients without checking with me or Momma first!”

Wow. They were fighting over me.

 

Brynn wanted to try on the dress that Sabrina had made me. Summer wanted to try it on. Claudette wanted to leave out the slip and try it on. I didn't let them. She'd made it just for me.

My thank-you note to her was pretty simple.
Thanks for the dress. You're a genius.

 

Watching Momma and Kate on the phone was like watching a tennis match. I was waiting for Momma to get off the phone and give me my booking information. “They're looking for a Caucasian family of four,” Momma's cigarette voice growled to whoever was on the phone. “Good-looking but not model types. Image Box Studio. For fifteen hundred.”

“Pam, you
were
booked for a series regular, but they replaced you with someone younger,” Kate explained into her headset.

“It's a cold reading,” Momma said. “And talent are coming from Orlando. It'll probably be packed.”

“Don't cry, love. I heard the story lines are so weak they're going to pull the plug on it anyway.”

Momma hung up. “Allee. You're booked for Hershey's Kisses. Direct. It's print. You have to kiss.”

“Kiss what?”

“Dunno,” Kate said, hanging up. “A guy. Another agency booked him, so we don't know who he is.”

“Some models don't do kissing, sweetie,” Momma says. “Are you okay with it?”

“Um…he doesn't have a cold or anything, does he?”

Momma's laugh sounded like a hacking cough. “Not that I know of, sweetie,” she said.

Hmmm. I hadn't been kissed in a long time. But I needed more info. Ever since the Uta Scholes editorial, I had asked more questions. We discussed my no-tongue policy for kissing strangers. A policy I'd just made up this second. I was hoping Momma hadn't heard about my little make-out session with that guy at the Delano. We discussed the rate, the photographer, and if I'd have to show any skin.