Poser (6 page)
“I really don't want anyone to know, Mrs. Walker,” I pleaded. “Can you just tell my teachers I'm a little sick or something? Everything is...hard enough already,” I choked out.
Okay, I know what you're thinking:
This guy is a complete and total JERK
! Well, I guess there might be some other jerk out there thinking,
You go, Spin
! Anyway, I felt like a real jerk. Worse than a jerk.
But believe me, I'd used up every single other halfway-believable excuse. Every one. I told you that a few chapters ago. In the lying business, you have to keep things fresh. It'd be insulting otherwise. I'm not a my-dog-ate-my-homework kind of liar. I'm an artist.
There was a long, awkward silence. I didn't feel right about breaking it. I mean, you don't drop a depressing bombshell and then jump up, check your watch and say, “Well, lunchtime, gotta go!”
Finally, Mrs. Walker got up and held out her hand. Her face was all blotchy, and her hand was really warm.
“Luke, I'm honored that you chose to tell me about your illness. And I want you to know that this school, this
family,
will stand behind you one hundred percent. A
thousand
percent,” she said. (Chan hates stuff like that. I can just see him putting his big head to the side, narrowing his eyes and snapping, “There's no such
thing
as a thousand percent.” Good thing Chan'll never know that he and the “family” are that much behind me.)
I looked at the door behind Mrs. Walker and thought,
Please don't hug me please don't hug me please don't hug me
... The phone rang.
I can move quickly when I need to. I shook Mrs. Walker's hand up and down a few times, muttered “thanks” and bolted for the door.
Even a jerk gets lucky once in a while.
RED PLUSH (A PLACE. NOT, THANKFULLY, AN OUTFIT I HAVE TO MODEL)
Today was going to be the last day for a while that I had free time after school. I needed it. Mrs. Walker had popped by our class after lunch “Just to say hi!” and given me a brave, supportive smile. She'd also left an inspirational quotation on my locker (which I ripped off and crumpled up as soon as I saw it). It said:
Bravery is the smile worn by a trembling soul
. What the heck? Why should something I didn't even understand make me feel like garbage?
It was nice to hang out with Chan and Frey for a while. They're total goofs, and we laugh a lot. Not fake-laughing either. Actual friends having actual, unphotogenic good times.
We headed over to Red Plush, a movie-rental store about three blocks from our school, tucked in the dark end of a grim little strip mall. I can't figure out how it stays in business, because there never seems to be anyone in there but us. We pushed open the door that still, at 3:30
PM
, had the CLOSED sign on it.
“Uh-oh, look out. Here comes trouble,” rasped a voice as the little bells above the door jangled.
Red (none of us knew her last name) said the same thing every time we came in. She was a tiny, shriveled old woman with patchy, dyed-red hair and big, watery, blue eyes. She mostly sat in a recliner with her veiny legs up, watching old movies.
She turned toward us, smiling.
Now, if you didn't know Red, that smile might have made you turn and run.
First, her teeth were not terrific. With modern advances in dental care, most people don't have
black
teeth anymore. But Red had a few, and you could see them all when she smiled. Second, there was, as Chan called it, her “extreme makeup.” We'd had arguments, just us three, about whether she used markers or crayons or small paintbrushes.
Whatever she used, the effect was very dramatic. Okay, I'm being diplomatic. She looked completely creepy, like an old-lady zombie or maybe like a little girl who got turned into a creepy old-lady zombie. I'm not really putting this well.
Today's look was bright orange lipstick WAY outside the lines, bright blue eye shadow sweeping around her eyes and up the sides of her bony forehead, and two blotches of pink on her withered cheeks.
Anyway, no matter what she looked like, Red was super nice. Like a grandmother who never tried to kiss you or told you to cut your hair or tucked your shirt in for you at the back of your pants. Red pretty much just offered you snacks and left you alone.
“Hey, Red,” Frey called out cheerfully. “How's business?” Frey lives down the street, so he and Red know each other pretty well. Frey shovels the walks at Red Plush when it snows, runs (or sort of shuffles) errands for her and helps (slowly) with any lifting.
“Oh, okay. Steady,” she replied, her eyes wandering back to the black-and-white movie on the ancient
TV
. I noticed the cover was still on the cash register.
How does this place stay in business?
I wondered for the millionth time. Humphrey, Red's slobbery bulldog, slid off the couch and snuffled over to us. I bent down and gave his ears a good scratch. He loves that.
I love dogs. Dogs don't know when you're lying or what kind of problems you have. They don't care. They just like you (or not), and they show it. Often with drool.
“You boys want some popcorn? Or there's cookies.” Red waved her blue-veiny hand toward the back of the store.
Frey, always hungry, was already rummaging. With four boys, the Frey household is always short on food. I've known Frey to bring nothing but two whole carrots, with the green tops still on, for lunch. He will sit there, chewing like a barnyard animal, totally oblivious to any snickers from me and Chan. Actually, Frey often eats most of Chan's lunch as well. Mrs. Chan packs Chan these mammoth lunchesâspring rolls, rice, noodles, stir-fried vegetables and pork. They're the best lunches in the class. Ask anyone.
Chan and I tucked our backpacks out of the way and sat on the couch. Red Plush was kind of a rundown place, but it was a neat idea. The main room was set up like a living room: a couch and Red's recliner faced a TV hooked up to an old VCR and a newer DVD player. And along the wall, bolted to the floor, there was this cool row of old, red, velvety movie seats. Red got them from some theater that was demolished. Anyway, the movies were like an afterthought, lining the rest of the walls in crooked, haphazard bunches.
In most movie-rental stores, the movies are organized into sections. Drama, comedy, family, classics... that kind of thing. At Red Plush, it was all random, and you pretty much had to ask Red where anything was. Sometimes we'd quiz her just to keep her on her toes.
“
Sunset Boulevard
,” Chan would say.
“Easy. Second from the bottom of that pile near the till. Watched it yesterday.”
“
Aladdin
.” There didn't seem to be anything newer than about 1980 in the store, except the Disney movies. She seemed to have a soft spot for those.
“Top shelf by the door,” she'd rattle off. “Fourth from the left.”
“Ah, but do you know where
The Troll Diaries
is?” Chan would slip in.
Red would turn, wagging her finger, giving him the full benefit of her terrible face.
“You little rat, Chan, you're making them up again. Whaddaya think I am, an amateur?”
I had to hand it to her: she knew her stuff.
Red Plush was very comfortable, especially on winter afternoons. Most days, Red had a portable heater going full blast along with the central heating, so the place was very cozy, especially if you'd trudged there through three feet of snow in runners and a hoodie. Nobody in grade seven wears snow boots. Ever.
Anyway, it was a great place. I hadn't told Mom or Macy about it. Another secret, but can you blame me? It was a quiet place, a place to watch an ancient John Wayne western, eat popcorn and forget that, instead of saving the good townsfolk from vicious cattle-rustling thugs, you had to go model cheap clothes on the weekend.
I wondered what the Duke (that's what they used to call John Wayne) would have said about it.
On second thought, I didn't want to know.
INTERRUPTION BY MACY #3
“Now, Beauty Boy, just listen to this one. Just
listen
: âWarmer-Weave Undershirts needs teen models with spark and sass for its
We Want U
campaign.'” She looked up hopefully.
I have to hand it to Macy. She just keeps on trying.
Hmmm, let me think. A semi-naked modeling shoot... “Listen, Macy, absolutely not. ABSOLUTELY NEVER,” I said menacingly. It bounced right off her.
She actually laughed.
“You look so funny when you're trying to be Mr. Tough Guy, BB!
Absolutely never
!” she mimicked in a stupid, exaggerated growl. “Well, we'll see, BB. We shall see. But you know what they say? Never say never!” she said playfully, taking a sip of her coffee and swiveling back to the computer.
ANOTHER SUPER-EXCITING SHOOT WITH SUPER-JOCK CODY
Toronto. I know nothing about the city, other than Pearson Airport (which is just like other airports, only bigger) and the insides of budget motels and photo studios. We drove past the CN Tower once, but that was about it for sightseeing. We come here, I model, we leave.
Cody and I were standing by the water cooler, on a break from grinning and shrugging. The waistband of my pants was killing me, digging a red, itchy line across my stomach.
“They told me you were a size twelve!” the assistant snapped when I mentioned how tight it was.
“Well, sometimes I take a twelve, sometimes a fourteen,” I explained patiently. In my head, I was ranting:
Listen, you hag, I can barely breathe in these things... you try wearing pants seventy sizes too small...see how you like it...
“Well, suck in your gut, because that's the outfit for the shoot. I've only got the one size.”
What a charmer, hey? I also distinctly heard her muttering something about me “laying off the pizza” as she walked away. There's nothing you can do with people like that. Either you burst a blood vessel or you let it go. I shrugged, a real, philosophical shrug. Not the fake kind we were doing in the shoot.
Anyway, me and Cody were standing by the water cooler. Cody and I. Whatever. I was running a finger under my waistband, wondering how much longer we needed to be there. Cody was talking.
“Pretty sweet shoot, hey, Lukester?” he asked. He really meant it. He was having
fun
at this lame-o shoot. The brilliant idea of the whole thing was that we were these cute kids who accidentally hit a baseball through a fake broken window. Oops! I never understand why companies think this kind of thing will sell clothes. Anyway, I tried to tell the photographer that it wasn't very believable that I'd be holding a bat and wearing a ball glove as well. I mean, you either bat or field in baseball, right?
“Well, we're just trying to get across the
idea
of baseball, Luke. Just, you know,
baseball
. The ball in the window. Nobody's thinking of the
rules
,” laughed the photographer.
So there I stood, stupidly wearing a ball mitt while holding the bat, and trying to look like I didn't mind.
We had just finished a series of shots where we were supposed to “shrug endearingly” (about fakebreaking the window) while looking straight into the camera.
Try it: put your hands deep in your pockets, kind of straighten your arms, hunch up your shoulders near your ears, furrow your brow and smile kind of ruefully.
If you're super corny, like Cody, you might turn in your toes, or even push out your bottom lip. Photographers love that kind of stuff. That's why Cody will go far in this business. He understands it. He
believes
in it.
I felt kind of sorry for him.
“Yep, it's a riot, Cody,” I said.
Cody got serious all of a sudden.
“Marnie's leaving,” he said, looking like he was going to cry. Cody always assumed you knew who he was talking about. He's the kind of guy who would get on a city bus, sit right behind the driver, blurt “Marnie's leaving” and never once think,
Oh, wait, this guy's a total stranger who might not know Marnie or care about why she's leaving
.
“Oh yeah?” I said. “That sucks. Who's Marnie again?”
“Marnie? Oh, Grams,” he said, surprised. “You know, Grams. My agent?”
Aaaah, the old lady Cody always came with. She was about a hundred and fifty. Grams. Maybe that was why I thought she was his grandma. Actually, I thought she was his
great
-grandma. I guess she's his agentâor was his agent.
“Oh yeah, yeah, her,” I said quickly. “Where's she going?”
“Florida. Forever,” he said, sounding lost.
“Hey, no snow shoveling there,” I said, trying to lighten things up. “Try and set up a visit every February, Cody. Work on the tan.”
His big eyes brimmed with tears.
I rattled on nervously.
“Seriously, there are other agents, Cody. You're really good. You won't have any trouble finding another agent. They'll be lining up...”