Gorgeous (16 page)

26

L
AST DAY OF SCHOOL
.
Good-bye, ninth grade, and don’t let the door hit you in the butt.
“Tenth grade is better,” Quinn assured me on our way to the bus in the morning. We both had our sunglasses on, but still I could tell she was avoiding making eye contact.

“Halle-frickin-luyah,” I answered.

She stopped in front of me. “If you would get your head out of your butt for one minute, Allison, you would notice that I am not perfect and you are not the only one with problems.”

“I didn’t—”

“I’m
interested
in working at this camp. It’s not just padding my résumé.”

“I never said—”

“You act like everything I do is to torture you, poor Allison, so trapped in the plot of
East of Eden
.”

“The
what
?”

“You do,” she said. “Do you even realize how self-aggrandizing that is, to act so troubled, so self-loathing—and meanwhile here you are, suddenly America’s Next Top Model, and supposedly the hottest guy in
my
grade is all crazy about you, but still everybody is supposed to tiptoe around your fragile ego?”

“If that’s tiptoeing I’d hate to see you stomp,” I said.

She sighed and turned away, and we continued down the road. “Congratulations, by the way,” she muttered.

“Thanks,” I said. “Think Dad will let me go?”

“Mom will wear him down.”

We stood at the corner, waiting for the bus, not talking. After a while I asked, “You have problems?”

“You don’t even want to know,” she said.

“Yes, I do. You just seem so perfect. I didn’t think—”

“Things are rarely what they seem,” she said, and before I could ask her more, Roxie came dashing up asking me about my weird text message to her, and then the bus showed up as I was asking her, “What text message?”

“That you are a finalist in the New Teen contest!” She slid into the window seat. I sat beside her and said I had not texted her anything; I had gotten into a fight with my parents and then fallen asleep.

“So are you a finalist or not?”

“I am,” I said. “That’s what’s weird. I meant to text you, I swear—but I fell asleep before I did it.”

“Maybe you texted me in your sleep,” she suggested.

“Sleep texting,” I said. “Man, I get weirder by the day.”

She grinned at that and I grinned back. “You’re going to win,” she said.

I shrugged. “Speaking of weird.”

“No.” She looked closer. “Because gorgeous is surface. You, my friend, are beautiful.”

We were pulling up to Jade and Serena’s stop. Serena was waving at us and doing little jumps in place. Jade was scowling.
Oh, joy.

Jade climbed up the bus steps first, with Serena bopping behind her, calling my name and saying, “Congratulations!”

“On what?” I asked.

“Being a finalist!” Serena said.

Jade slid into the seat across the aisle from us, and said, “Thanks for letting the whole world know except me,” she said.

“I didn’t text anybody,” I said, but when Serena held up her phone with the proof, I can’t say I was completely shocked. “I must have done it while I was sleeping,” I argued. “You didn’t get one?” I asked Jade.

“You should know,” Jade said, leaning across Serena and biting off her words with horrible precision. “You know what, Allison? I don’t really care. It’s your life. You’re obviously determined to screw it up, so good luck to you. I don’t know if it’s even true that you are modeling. Personally, I doubt it. I mean, no offense, but you’re just not that pretty. That’s what everybody is saying, so you know. Nobody believes your little lies about winning this contest. Okay? So you’re just making a fool of yourself. There. I said it. The truth hurts. You have to be gorgeous to be a model, and even Roxanne is not that gorgeous. Right? She didn’t get a callback. But somehow you did? You, with no experience, who never even likes getting her picture taken, who is—let’s be blunt—not that great-looking. If that’s harsh, well, it’s about time somebody said it to your face instead of just behind your back.”

I didn’t feel like crying. I just felt cold. I didn’t interrupt or object, just sat there letting her tear me to pieces as we bumped through our beautifully manicured town toward the last day of school.

And I was thinking about how much easier it was to believe what she was saying about how I looked than what Roxie had said.
They are just two opinions,
I told myself. It’s easier to believe the bad stuff, true, but maybe that’s not a good enough reason to decide to believe it.

Serena had turned to Jade to try to stop her, but Jade glared at Serena, and Serena sank down to let her continue.

“Come on, Allison. I don’t know why you would make stuff up like the devil came to your bedroom and you are out of the bright blue sky suddenly a supermodel. Nobody believes you. Maybe you’re psychotic. Maybe you think that telling these outrageous lies is the only way you can be popular. I don’t know and I don’t care. I can’t stop you from humiliating yourself, but I am done letting you humiliate me. I’m not here to be your punching bag.”

I saw Roxie’s jaw tighten, but I did not need or want her to handle this one for me.

“Listen, Jade,” I said. “I am sorry you didn’t get my text. I’m sorry everybody else got it, honestly; my phone actually is possessed by the devil, as psycho as that sounds. Not all improbable things are false. But I am not trying to humiliate you, and I don’t think you are my punching bag. I never did. The opposite, in fact.”

“Could you speak any louder,” she snarled. “I think there are some eleventh graders in the back who can’t hear your booming insults.”

“Fine,” I said louder, ignoring the sarcasm that would normally have withered me in my seat. “I’ll speak up then. Jade, you have treated me like your annoying and ugly little cousin all year, and I am sick of it. You make me feel like crap about myself. But the truth is, I am not annoying and I am not ugly.”

Jade glared at me, then slid her eyes away. “If you say so,” I think she muttered.

“I do say so. A person needs her friends to believe in her more than she believes in herself. Not less. A good friend sticks with you even when weird stuff happens—even when
good
stuff happens. But you, Jade Demarchelier, are a bad friend.”

I sat back in my seat. Roxie started clapping. A few other kids in the back clapped, too. I started to sink down in my seat, but then straightened up instead, deciding,
What the hell,
and smiled, not even caring that my lips disappeared.

The rest of the day went along strangely. I had apparently texted some but not all of the people on my contact list, so half the people I knew were offended and the other half thought they were suddenly very close with somebody nearly famous, and kept texting me all through the day to
have a gr8 summer
and crap like that. I was texting under my desk in practically every class. The usual round of hugs and tears that mark the last day of school, at least for the girls, was even buzzier than in past years. Fifth period I got a text from one girl whose name didn’t even look familiar telling me that if I won and was therefore in Nice during August, I should plan to stay an extra few days with her family near there. She actually added,
Bonne chance!

The girls I apparently had neglected to text about my status as a finalist whispered as I came near them and turned away, shrugging as I passed. Luckily I was mostly walking around with Roxie, so I acted like I didn’t care. I caught a glimpse of Tyler laughing with a bunch of tenth graders, but he either didn’t see me or pretended not to, and when Emmett waved Roxie over, she called out, “I’ll text you later,” and kept walking with me.

Since report cards are mailed instead of handed out at the high school, the day ended kind of anticlimactically, and when we got on the bus to go home, I slumped against Roxie and moaned, “Half the people here hate me and the other half only like me because they think I’m someone I’m not.”

“Well,” she said, “you can’t have everything. But you can have this. Here.” She handed me a box covered in wrapping paper and ribbon. “Happy end of ninth.”

“I didn’t get you anything.”

She waved that off. “I just wanted…you know…You’re a good friend.”

I shook my head.

“You are,” she insisted. “You made me feel like less of a loser, and if I did the same for you, good. We’re great, right? And when you have people that love you backing you up, anything is possible.”

“Roxie, I feel like I have screwed up so many—”

“Your cell sucks, but I blame the devil for that. Open it!”

I tore off the wrapping. It was a clay mask from Origins.

“I always use this mask the night before important modeling calls. Gives you a good glow.”

I hugged her. We got off the bus and started up the street.

“Any advice you can give me?” I asked her. “I really hate having my picture taken—I feel so stripped down and ugly, and like the camera is a predator…”

She laughed her great loud, barky laugh. “Pretend it’s a friend. Pretend it’s me! Reveal everything. Pretend you are safe, loved, and gorgeous, and you will be.”

I nodded and said I would try.

“Call me after,” Roxie said, with another hug in front of her huge house. “Hey, Double Shot? Maybe you should use a landline, though.”

I laughed and went the rest of the way home alone.

After dinner that night, while Dad was out for a run, I showed my sisters and mother the mask Roxie had given me and we decided to all do it. We washed our faces and slathered the black slime on, cracking up in Mom’s bathroom at how hideous we all looked. Then we sat in a row on the chaise longues beside the pool, watching the sun set together.

Nobody was talking for a while and it felt very peaceful, until Mom said, “I have to tell you girls something.”

Quinn and I flashed each other a look but said nothing.

“As you know, Daddy and I have been talking to my lawyers about contesting the grounds I was fired on. It’s become clear that although I still believe in my heart and soul that I am guilty of nothing worse than making a bad gamble on a good idea, I’m not going ahead with a lawsuit.”

Quinn started to object. Mom cut her off. She stood up and paced in front of us, like she was making a political speech to an audience of three.

“I appreciate your support, Quinn. And you, too, Allison and Phoebe. I don’t know what I would do without you girls and the strength you give me. The way that you have kept what is going on with me as private as you have, the way you have managed the various losses I know you’ve borne—Daddy and I are so grateful, and so proud.” She straightened up, her posture ramrod straight, almost military, and with the sun setting behind her right shoulder, she could have been a heroic portrait of herself, except for the clay mask on her face and the T-shirt and cutoffs she was wearing.

“Thank you,” Quinn whispered somberly. I swallowed my own impulse to crack up.

“I am going to follow your example here, all of you,” Mom continued forcefully, as little flakes of clay fell to her feet. “As horrible and scary and humiliating as this is for me, at least we’ve been able to keep it fairly quiet. So I have decided not to sue for wrongful termination. Fighting would mean gambling on a very unlikely possibility of success, according to my lawyers. So it’s not a strategic move anyway, as much as you know I love to fight the good fight. But the deciding factor is that a lawsuit would guarantee that our family situation would be splashed across the pages of the
Wall Street Journal
and possibly the local paper as well…. No. I won’t put us through that. I think it would destroy me completely if my work situation were taking a terrible toll on you girls. I am so happy you are all handling it so well. Sometimes, I guess, you move on by surrendering. I’m sorry I have let you girls down.”

“You haven’t,” we all said immediately. I had to turn away from her, so I looked at Phoebe, beside me. A tear was streaking a track down her muddy cheek.

“We’ll battle back somehow,” Mom said. “There’s always another tack to take. That’s what I think. We’re the Avery women. I love my work, but you are my family, my everything.”

A chip of clay fell off Mom’s forehead and landed on her foot, and she asked, “What was that?”

That was when I lost it. I started giggling, tried to cover it with a cough, and might have succeeded, if I hadn’t heard a strangled little sound escape from Quinn. Her mouth was tight but her shoulders were shuddering as she tried to hold in the laughter. Mine were, too, and then squeaky sounds started seeping out of Phoebe, too, until we were overcome.

“What?” Mom asked. “What’s so funny?”

We were trying to explain and pointing at her face and our own when Dad came around the side of the house, caught sight of us all there with the black clay all over our faces, and shrieked.

Mom looked at him, then at us, and that’s when it dawned on her. She doubled over laughing. We all ran, howling, for bathrooms while Daddy, bewildered, kept asking what had happened to our faces.

Later, after we’d washed up, revealing our healthy glow, we put on pajamas and wandered back downstairs, not ready to go our separate ways yet. All five of us fell asleep entangled on the couches in the family room, watching TV, and when we woke up at two in the morning and wandered off to our beds, Dad whispered to me, “Sweet dreams—tomorrow, well, today, will be the first day of the rest of your life,” editing what he used to say when I was little. I had a jolt of fear, since that reminded me of what was about to happen that day, and I thought I’d never fall back to sleep. I did, though, way easier than I’d anticipated, with the picture of me, my mother, and my sisters cracking up in our hideous masks, and feeling absolutely beautiful together.

27

I
WALKED THROUGH THE
double-height glass doors on the thirty-fourth floor of the office building, clutching the bag of clothes I’d brought (better prepared this time) and clenching my jaw. I headed down the long hallway, passing huge blowups of past
zip
covers on both sides. They were beautiful. It was like being in a really cool museum. The receptionist, sitting in front of a bronze wall hanging of the
zip
logo, looked me down and up after I told her my name.

“And you are here for?” she asked.

“For…I’m a…an interview. A finalist,” I babbled. “Allison Avery.”

“Ah,” she said, “yes,” and pointed across the room. There was a red leather couch with a long, gangly girl on it already, her slick black hair pulled back from her angular, dark face. I sat down on the other side of the couch. She smiled, revealing the whitest, straightest teeth I’d ever seen, and asked, “You’re a finalist?”

“Weirdly enough,” I said, and shook her outstretched hand.

“I know what you mean,” she said, and I considered feeling horribly offended, in fact was working up to it, when she continued, “I’ve spent my whole life feeling hideous, like a freak. Apparently the only ones who disagree are these people.”

I felt myself smiling back at her, and said, “But you’re gorgeous.”

“Me? No way,” she said. “You are. My own grandmother told my mother not to worry, I wouldn’t always look like this.”

“Mine said I was
interesting-looking
!”

“Oh, that’s awful,” she agreed. “I’m Siddhartha.”

“Filonia mentioned you!”

“How I knocked over the whole tray of makeup?”

“No,” I assured her. “How great you were.”

“Allison Avery?” the receptionist called.

“Oh, Siddhartha was here first,” I said.

“I don’t care,” the receptionist answered.

“I’m way early,” Siddhartha said. “Nervous. Good luck!”

I doubled back for my bag and to say
thanks
and
you too
; then had to sprint after the receptionist in her stilettos. I tried not to clomp, since our steps echoed in the hallway. At the end, she swung open a frosted-glass door and said my name.

I stopped short in the doorway when the devil himself smiled at me from behind his desk.

“Go in,” the receptionist said.

I did.

“It’s you,” I managed to say.

He stood up and came around the desk, looking at me, and said, “Allison Avery.”

“Yes.” The door closed behind me. He gestured to a chair in front of his desk. I went to it and sat down, while he leaned against his desk, never taking his eyes off me.

“Do you need a drink of water?”

I shook my head.

Noticing that I was shivering a little bit, he asked, “Too cold for you? These buildings are always over-air-conditioned.”

“Usually I’m sweaty,” I said.

“Me, too,” he said, though he looked so perfect and cool in his linen suit it was hard to imagine he ever over-heated.

“You are a very interesting girl,” he said, and then—I guess I looked a little panicked—he patted a paper on his desk. “Your interview gives us a good potential angle.”

“Oh?”

He reached behind him and picked up a big glossy photograph. It was a cover of
zip
, one I hadn’t seen before, really dramatic-looking; the girl was gorgeous and crying; I then realized that
The New Teen
was written across the bottom. Then I saw that the gorgeous girl in the picture was me.

I looked at his face when I could tear my eyes away from the image. “I don’t get it,” I whispered.

“Very timely, as well as quite arresting, obviously.”

“What is?”

“The angle.”

“I don’t…” I was staring at the picture again. It didn’t look like me, but it did; it was disturbing but kind of beautiful; it was hard to stop making eye contact with the broken, angry, vulnerable girl in the picture, even knowing that she was me.

“Of course you do, Allison Avery,” he said. “Don’t play dumb; it’s unbecoming.”

I looked at him again, and he smiled. “The new teen. Coping with her family’s slide into poverty. The heartbreak of losing her house, her home, her social standing. Very newsworthy, and of course you photograph magnificently. A little tightness in the lips, which you should work on.”

“They tend to disappear,” I said.

“Don’t let them. After this you’ll go down the hall for the shoot, where we’ll get some different looks. For the inside. Versatility—sporty, sweet, innocent—but I think this should be our cover look, to give it punch. But first we will need to get more details, of course, fill out the story. That’s your ticket to winning.”

“No,” I said. “I told Nico, that…that’s private.”

He cocked his head. “But that’s the story.”

I shook my head.

“Allison,” he said, “we can’t just have a picture of a crying girl with no story. The story makes the picture. It will all, certainly, be in only the best taste. If anything makes you uncomfortable, we won’t print it.”

“Oh,” I said. “Okay.”

“The more details you can provide, of course, the more real it will feel to our readers, and the more likely you are to win.”

“I thought it was just about how you look in a picture,” I said.

He smiled wickedly. “Is anything so simple?”

“I guess not.”

“A picture is an invitation, a question mark. Like beauty itself. What is it that makes one person beautiful and another not? Is it a cream, a blush, an arrangement of fabric? A billion-dollar industry, in which I am a cog, insists that it is. Is it anatomy? Symmetry? Or something more ephemeral? Thomas Aquinas, an old buddy of mine, said three things are needed for beauty: wholeness, harmony, and a killer mascara. No, wait, not mascara. Radiance. That’s what he said. Radiance. Not a single plug for a brand of concealer from him. And you, Allison Avery, what is your theory?”

I shrugged.

“It’s a simple question. Let’s say you are our cover girl. What is beauty, to you?”

“Um,” I said, thinking,
They didn’t say there was going to be a test
. “I guess it is…feeling beautiful?”

“Ah,” he said. “A tautology. Beauty is feeling beautiful.”

“Or that’s what it comes from,” I said. “You are most beautiful when you feel beautiful.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“No,” I admitted. “I don’t know. That’s what I wish were true.”

“And yet you manage to feel beautiful,” he said. “Despite the fact that like so many other teens in these difficult economic times, your mother has lost her job, you are losing your house, your summer plans have evaporated, your friendships and social standing are under stress…”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t…”

“You texted responses to my assistant. We have them on the record.”

“I did not.”

He held up a typed paper. “I have it all right here.”

I stood up. “You can’t have texts from me that I never sent you.”

He held out the paper. I only glanced at it but saw, highlighted in yellow, the names
Tyler Moss, Jade Demarchelier, Roxie Green, Quinn,
and
Phoebe
.

“No,” I said. “You can’t use it. No.”

“Sit down, Allison. Let’s keep chatting.”

“No,” I said.

“Don’t you want to win?”

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

“Winning isn’t easy.”

“I know.”

“There are sacrifices we make if we want success. Do you think your mother got to where she got by shying away from a challenge? Do you think any successful person backed down at the first scary obstacle? If you want to be famous, if you want to be
somebody
—and I think you do—there is a cost. You have to put yourself out there.”

“Myself is one thing,” I said. “This is my family.”

He shrugged. “What price beauty?”

“It would destroy my mother.”

“It would make you.”

I opened my mouth but no words came out.

“Your mother has had her turn,” the devil said softly. “It’s your turn now. This is your chance, Allison Avery. This picture is gorgeous, and the story is so timely it will catapult you straight into the talk shows.
Vogue
would want it,
Cosmo
, certainly all the other teen rags. We’ve already leaked the possibility to Oprah; she’s drooling. It’s happening, Allison. You’ve got the look, and you’ve got the story to propel it. If we pierce the veil of privacy, go behind the hedges in the estates of privilege…”

“Our hedges aren’t even that high.”

“Or you can choose to be afraid. You can say no. It is your choice. But let me be clear: If you walk away from this opportunity, another is highly unlikely to present itself.”

“But if I’m so gorgeous…”

His eyes narrowed. “You make your reputation with every decision, day by day. And if your reputation is that of a gun-shy shirker, thus will you ever be. There is no turning back. Think carefully. The choices we make determine who we are. Who are you, Allison Avery?”

I swallowed hard, trying to think. Picturing myself on covers of magazines, famous, successful beyond my wildest dreams.

“You are poised to live the fantasy,” he said. “How many girls would sell their souls for this chance?”

I blinked and felt a smile start on my mouth. “Not me.”

“No?”

“I didn’t,” I said, and pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. “I just sold my cell phone.”

His eyes crinkled slightly as he smiled only with them, at me.

“And that has actually kind of sucked. Because it’s my connection, my relationships that I sold, wasn’t it?”

He cocked his head.

“I’m still not completely convinced that I have a soul,” I told him. “But on the off chance that I do, I don’t want to sell it.”

He picked up the picture of me on the cover of
zip
again. This time he handed it to me. I put my cell phone down on his desk to hold the picture in both hands. It really was a cool picture. I actually looked gorgeous. I had to admit that if I saw that cover on a rack, I’d probably have to buy the magazine.

When I lifted my eyes again, my cell phone was in his large hand.

We stared at each other.

“It’s just a dream,” I whispered. “Right?”

“No,” he whispered back. “Not just.”

I looked back down at the picture of me, a picture I was beginning to recognize, now that I had had time to study it: Beautiful. Vulnerable. Me.

What price beauty?

Was it worth breaking my mother’s heart? Or would it just be being honest? I hadn’t lied, and it was just my story, my opinion. Maybe the devil was right that telling my story would help other people who were having tough economic times or family crises to cope. Maybe I would be doing something good in the world after all. And maybe for once I would be the Avery sister who people knew and noticed.

And nobody was guaranteeing I would win, anyway. Probably I wouldn’t, right? That girl Siddhartha out in the waiting room was way prettier. So who cares; take a chance, right?

A chance to what, though?

If this was my chance to do something big, something good, what would that something be, and for whom?

It was my turn; he was right. All I had to offer was my face, my body, my story.

My story.

My soul.

The ripping sound almost surprised me. It was as if my fingers had made the decision before my brain. I tore straight down the center of the photograph, the middle of my face, the most beautiful picture of myself I’d ever seen. When I got to the end, I stacked the two pieces on top of each other and tore them again, and then again, and again. When I was done and held the scraps of myself in my hands, I stopped. I could so easily see myself throwing them right at the devil, just the way I had thrown my paper about Gouverneur Morris at the Fascist, and it would have looked about as festive. Instead I let the confetti of my own image flutter through my fingertips onto his pristine floor.

He watched until the last scrap fell, and then said, “Alas.”

“Alas,” I agreed. I held out my hand and he gently placed my cell phone in it. I closed my fingers around it. It was cool to the touch. I grabbed my bag and walked through the scraps of me toward his door. When my hand was on the doorknob, he called my name.

I turned around.

“All to protect your family’s honor?” he asked.

I shrugged. “That, or just perversity.”

He smiled.

On my way down the hall I looked at my cell phone. It wasn’t doing anything weird. I scrolled through my contact list, looking at the names. When I came to Ty, I knew what I wanted to do.

Hey,
I texted.

When I got to the reception room I wished a terrified-looking Siddhartha good luck. The receptionist lady tried to explain that I had to go to the photo shoot room, but I thanked her and said I was done. As I was strolling through the corridor of gorgeous girls on
zip
covers, a pantheon I’d never join, Ty texted back:

You good enough yet?

I grinned and pushed the button for the down elevator as I texted back:

Yes. I am now. Will you go out with me?

I stepped into the elevator and my phone flashed,
Searching for network
. I waited to feel the crush of panic, but I didn’t. I was okay. I looked at my reflection in the burnished silver of the elevator walls and didn’t shrink away in disgust.
Gorgeous,
I whispered to my reflection, trying it out and feeling silly.
Beautiful,
I tried, and my reflection looked back at me like,
Well, maybe.

It wasn’t until I got out of the elevator and was crossing the vast marble lobby that my phone found service again and buzzed with an answer from Ty:

Yes.

Great,
I texted back.
Tell Gideon I look forward to meeting him.

I pushed out through the revolving door and spotted my family waiting for me at the café across the street. Their heads all turned toward me with questions in their eyes. I shrugged and smiled, and they all smiled back.