Diary of an Ugly Duckling (11 page)
By the time the newly glamorous Bette Davis
challenged her strict mother’s control and vowed to
wait, forever if necessary, for the man she loved,
Audra had the phone in her hand.
It couldn’t hurt to find out . . .
“Welcome to the
Ugly Duckling
,” a smooth,
recorded voice said. “To be considered for a spot as
a contestant on our show—”
Audra snatched a pencil from the drawer in her
bedside table, ripped a clean sheet of paper from a
notepad beside it and began to write.
Tuesday, April 3
Petra,
I’ve done something . . . It’s probably crazy but I didn’t
know what else to do. It’s a long shot, but with all the
movies I’ve watched, I know a little about how to tell a
story.
I told them my story, Petra—at least as much of it as
I know. I didn’t leave out anything—not Ma or Dad or
the stuff I heard. I only had a day to work on it. While
Kiana was at school Monday and I usually would have
gone to work, I found this video place, made a tape and
mailed it before I lost my nerve. It came out rather
good, if I do say so myself.
I didn’t tell Ma about it—and don’t you do it. She’ll
just say “They’ll never pick you,” and tell me to stick to
my diet. She’s right: They’ll never pick me, I’m sure of
it . . . but I don’t need to hear her say it.
When they clear up this stuff with Haines at work,
I’m going to change my shift to graveyard. I’d rather
give up sleep than have to look at Bradshaw again.
Wouldn’t it be amazing if they
did
pick me? I’d ask
them to make me look just like you!
Be careful out there,
Audra
Thursday, May 11
Petra,
The news reports we’ve been getting are kinda scary.
Are you sure you two are alright? Kiana hasn’t had a
note from Michael in a long time—not since his unit
entered Basra. It’s hard to reassure her that her
Daddy’s okay when there’s no word. She’s doing okay
though. Don’t worry, for all our differences, Ma and
I agree on our love for her.
Still no word from Ugly Duckling . . . Remember I
told you they called? They said they’d call back, but I
haven’t heard a thing. If the show comes on in the Fall
and I’m not on it, I guess that means “no!”
Be careful out there,
Audra
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Karyn Langhorne
“Audra, it’s Shamiyah Thomas again, from the
Ugly Duckling
show?”
The young woman spoke fast, her voice holding a
hopeful edge as though she expected Audra’s im-
mediate recognition. “We spoke last week about
your tape?”
“Yes, I remember,” Audra said, her own tones
coming to immediate attention. “But you said there
were problems—”
“Problems aplenty, girl,” the young woman said.
Audra pictured her: some energetic twentysome-
thing, probably as cute as she was perky. She talked
fast, in the crisp college tones of a Seven Sisters edu-
cation, but there was enough ethnic in her voice for
Audra to believe this child might actually be black—
and not just playing black for TV. Besides, Audra
suspected there weren’t very many white women
named Shamiyah in the world. “Is this a good
time?”
“Sure,” Audra said. “But I’ll be getting on the sub-
way in about five minutes—”
“Won’t take that long. Listen, we don’t normally
do this, but the show wants to fly you out. You
haven’t been selected yet, understand, but the doc-
tors want to meet you in person. To assess you as a
candidate for plastic surgery. See, I been lobbying
that we have at least one sister on this show—to
keep the finale from looking like Barbie dolls on pa-
rade, you know what I’m sayin’?” She chuckled,
sounding worldly and girlish all at once. “But the
docs keep saying there’s all these additional issues
with black skin and plastic surgery. Make it sound
like it’s a plague or something.” Shamiyah’s voice
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89
reached a level of good-humored indignance. “Now
what kind of signal is that sending in this messed-
up, racist, sexist culture of ours, I ask you?”
Audra hesitated, not sure at all what the appropri-
ate response to that question might be. In the end,
she decided on diplomacy and changed the subject.
“You want me to come out to Los Angeles? When?”
“Tonight,” Shamiyah said. “Tomorrow at the lat-
est. We’ve got decisions to make here. This show’s
supposed to air during November sweeps. You re-
member the rules—we need at least three months
for the surgeries and healing time. Not to mention
the weight loss and body sculpting.” She lowered
her voice conspiratorially. “I’ve heard they think
you should drop about
eighty pounds
. And there’s a
lot of doubt you’d be able to lose that much in the
time we’ve got—”
“I’ve lost about twenty since I sent the tape,” Au-
dra muttered. “Maybe twenty-five. I haven’t had an
Oreo in—”
“You’ve lost twenty-five pounds! That’s great!”
Audra could hear the girl scribbling down the infor-
mation. “That could make a
big
difference, Audra. A
big difference around here. See, I’ve got to tell you.
We all
love
the tape you sent. So funny. The way you
did all those
imitations
of old movie stars—a real
smart way to play to the Hollywood crowd. You’re
such a
character
!”
“Yeah, well. We ugly girls strive for character,”
Audra quipped again, not entirely joking, but
Shamiyah laughed like she was an audience of one
in a tawdry comedy club.
“See? That’s exactly the kind of stuff I’m talking
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Karyn Langhorne
about. You’d be a hoot on the show. Just a hoot. And
I love that you’ve got a serious side, too. The story
about what the girl said to you, about not needing
any advice from any ugly woman—Oh!” Shamiyah
inhaled dramatically. “So heartbreaking! Did that
really happen . . . or do you just have the ear for the
kinds of stories people want to hear?”
Before Audra had decided whether to admit to
the truth of that encounter, Shamiyah continued
with, “It doesn’t matter either way. It would work
great on the show. Really moving. Really . . .” she
paused, searching for the word to get the italics that
were so much a part of her manner of speech. She
found it in: “
emotional
. I’ve
got
to tell you, Audra.
You’re the
definite
front-runner for the African-
American spot on the show. I mean, we just
love
your story. The woman wearing the top you were
too fat to squeeze into at the party. The stuff about
your pants
ripping
on the
job
in front of the hottie
you had a crush on—” she enthused onward, pluck-
ing the most painful events of Audra’s life with del-
icate enthusiasm. “It just boils down to whether the
docs think they can do a
dramatic
job on you.” She
paused just long enough to inhale, then barreled on
with, “So, if we make all the arrangements, can you
catch the last flight out of LaGuardia tonight? I’ll set
up all your meetings for tomorrow and we’ll put you
on a plane back to New York tomorrow night. Can
you do it?”
“What do you mean you’re going to California?”
Edith said slowly. She’d already slipped off her
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91
shoes and dug into the plate of beef noodle casserole
Audra had left for her. “You don’t know anybody in
California—”
“You don’t know who I know,” Audra told her.
“Besides, I’m not asking for your permission. I’m a
grown woman. I’m telling you: I’m going to Califor-
nia and we need to work out how we’re going to
take care of Kiana while I’m gone.”
Edith quirked an eyebrow at her and frowned.
They weren’t getting along any better, but at least
things were no longer alternating between yelling
and screaming and frosty silence.
“I suppose I can ask the Quintanas to watch her
until I get home from the salon,” she muttered, her
eyes still fixed dubiously on Audra. “How long you
gonna be gone?”
“Call them.” Audra waved the phone under her
mother’s nose and glanced at her watch again.
“What’s the hurry? What’s going on?” She sur-
veyed Audra. “You’re not running out to Holly-
wood for some old-time movie fantasy bullshit, are
you?”
“No, Ma—”
Edith peered at her, taking in her faded sweats and
comfortably ripped T-shirt before asking, “You ain’t
going out there to meet a man, are you? You’re on the
computer all the time these days. You meet someone
on the Internet? Is he out in California? Because if
that’s what’s going on, you need to watch yourself.
Just because you lost a few pounds doesn’t mean
you’re some Hollywood diva, ready to handle your-
self around some man you’ve never even met—”
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Karyn Langhorne
Audra slammed the phone back down and
whirled on her. “You were always nagging on me to
lose some weight. Then when I lose some, you ac-
cuse me of being full of myself?” Audra rolled her
eyes. “What do you want from me? Make up your
mind, Ma!”
Edith frowned. “Well, sure, the weight loss looks
good, but—you know what I’m saying.” She hesi-
tated. “After that fiasco with that guy from your job
I’d think you’d learn your lessons about pinning
your hopes on men you hardly know.” She crinkled
her nose into her forehead with the effort of mem-
ory. “What was his name? Art something—”
Audra stiffened. She had barely seen Art Bradshaw
since that night, now that she’d been reassigned to
another shift. He hadn’t made any efforts to get in
touch, either.
Which was just fine, Audra told herself. One less
distraction. And thinking about his daughter, Es-
meralda Prince and that awful night at that cavelike
bar made it easy to wolf down lettuce leaves and
fruit instead of cookies.
“This has nothing to do with Art Bradshaw,” she
told her mother.
“I knew it!” Edith proclaimed, nodding vehe-
mently. “Some Internet guy—”
Audra shook her head. “No guys, Internet or oth-
erwise. I’ve sworn off.”
“Then why you gotta go to California?”
Audra gave a noncommittal shrug that she knew
would drive the older woman absolutely crazy.
“You got your secrets . . . I got mine.” She picked up
the phone again. “Now, if you don’t mind, please
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93
dial the number. I’m leaving right now. There’s a cab
waiting for me downstairs.”
Which was how Audra ended up on a late flight
from LaGuardia to LAX, ensconced in a first-class
seat with only her little black bag and a stack of
fashion magazines as companions. Inside the bag
were a change of panties and a toothbrush.
Audra pushed any thoughts of Art Bradshaw or
her mother to the back of her mind and focused on
the magazines in front of her with the diligence of a
law student preparing for the bar exam. Shamiyah
had given her an assignment—to find the image or
collection of images that would make up her ideal
face and body for final “Reveal” . . . and she was de-
termined to show the folks at
Ugly Duckling
exactly
what kind of diligence they’d get if they picked one
Audra Marks for their television show.
The plane touched down only minutes before
midnight. A man in a black, liveried car service uni-
form and holding a small sign bearing the words
a. marks stood waiting at attention as though ex-
pecting royalty.
“That’s me,” Audra said stepping up to him. “I’m
Audra Marks.”
The thin man looked her up and down, from her
short, scraggly hairdo to her rumpled black pants as
though he considered her highly unlikely in every
aspect of the word. Audra stored up the look,
adding it to the stockpile of images that was her
daily fuel and waited for him to get himself together.
“Your luggage?” He asked in a voice like the ob-
sequious servants in Audra’s ancient movies. Audra
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Karyn Langhorne
couldn’t help but wonder if he spent hours listening
to himself on a tape recorder to get that sound.
“This is it,” Audra patted her little black duffel.
“I’m all set. I mean—” She attempted a jovial smile
just to see if this little man would answer it with a