Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies (6 page)

“The sea?” Lively said, voice tentative.

“The sea?” Mrs. O’Brien repeated. “Really?” Two rows over, Philip Mikowski let out a low chuckle. O’Brien went in for the kill.

“Well, that’s where it
came
from,” Lively replied, a defiant tone creeping into her voice. “And they’re on an
island,
” she finished. I clenched my teeth to stifle a smile.

“Ah-haa,” Mrs. O’Brien replied. “Ms. Harris, do you have anything to add about the conch shell? Or the sea?” She wore her Expectant Expression.

Language Arts was one of my favorite subjects, and Mrs. O’Brien knew I knew the answer.
But don’t drag me into this!
I tried to plead with her using my eyes. She would wait me out, I knew it.

“Power,” I said, the word coming out as a croak. I cleared my throat. “The conch shell gives the power to speak to whomever has it.”

“Whoever,” she corrected.

I swore I could feel Lively’s irritation on the back of my neck.

Satisfied with my answer and more concerned with note-passing on the other side of the classroom, Mrs. O moved on.

Lively waited a few minutes, then hissed Sandra’s name again.

“What?”
Sandra breathed. So much for not talking. I sneaked a peek at her: eyes locked on Mrs. O’Brien, hissing out of one corner of her mouth, poised like she was taking notes—Sandra looked like a class-chatting pro, not like my honors-student straitlaced best friend.

“You play soccer?” Lively was speaking at nearly full volume, seeming to not care if she was heard again.

Why is Lively asking stupid questions?
Everyone knew that Sandra played soccer. She got awards at assembly every year.

Sandra nodded. “Mmmm.”

“I just signed up for Kick Off tryouts,” Lively said. Mrs. O’Brien shot a stern look in our direction.

Sandra sat straighter. That was her traveling squad. I twisted to the side so I could see better.

“Ms. Harris, face forward,” O’Brien barked. Sandra dropped her head and my face heated up. I received a sharp poke in my back.

“Don’t moooove,” Lively hissed.

“Knock it off,” I muttered.

“Oooh, make me,” Lively taunted. I looked to Sandra, buried in
The Lord of the Flies
so deeply it looked as though the spine had been surgically attached to her nose.

“Cut it out, Lively,” Sandra hissed from between the pages.

Lively resumed her conversation as though Sandra hadn’t spoken. “So I’m trying out and I want some extra help. I thought you could talk to me about it at lunch.”

At
lunch
? Sandra and Millie ate with me every day except Thursdays, when they had class council meetings. That’s when I got extra help in algebra from Dr. Mastis. Some weeks I didn’t need as much tutoring as others, but I’d rather eat with him and discuss x than sit by myself in the caf. It’s a decent system. Katy goes to the high school early to work on chem labs, so she’s never around.

Sandra rolled her eyes. “I don’t think so,” she said. I smiled at Sandra.
Take that, Lively!

“Oh,” Lively said, like she was hurt. She waited a second, then spoke again. “That’s too bad. Robbie Flan said you are the person to ask.”

The Lord of the Flies
was still propped in front of Sandra’s nose. “Robbie said that?” came her muffled whisper.

“Uh-huh. He sits with me a lot. Says a lot of things about you, actually.” Lively’s voice oozed sticky charm.
Don’t fall for it!
I shouted in my head.
She’s lying!

Sandra’s voice warmed. “Really? Like what?”

“Oh . . . stuff,” Lively responded. “Sit with me today and we can talk about it.
After
you tell me about tryouts.” It was like listening to a snake charmer. She was hypnotizing my best friend.

Sandra fell for it. “Okay.”

My stomach shriveled, then rolled around the hollow place it left in my gut. I tried to glare at Sandra out of the corner of my eye, but it’s hard to glare sideways. Sandra knew I couldn’t stand Lively, and she heard all the garbage Lively said to me. I couldn’t help but think, once Robbie’s name comes up, Sandra gets amnesia. A bitter taste filled my mouth. My desire to tell her about the HuskyPeach withered.

For the rest of the class period, I couldn’t concentrate. Lively and Sandra didn’t talk any more, but it didn’t matter. Not talking was almost worse—it was like they shared a secret that they didn’t want me to know about. Worst of all was Sandra’s refusal to look in my direction. The bonus Bad Moments in Language Arts? Mrs. O’Brien called on me two more times and both times I had to ask her to repeat the question. Each time, Lively snickered.

When the bell to end the period finally rang, I stuffed my books into my bag.

“Hey,” I said to Sandra, who also was putting her stuff away.

“Huh?” she said.

Before I could get another word out, a certain ponytail popped into my vision. “Sandra, don’t you have social studies next? Let’s walk over to H-wing.” Lively parked herself directly in front of my seat, preventing me from getting out of my chair and blocking my view of Sandra.

I clenched the straps of my bag in frustration. “Hey, Sandra, I—” I started.

Lively tossed her head toward me. “No one can hear you.” She slid between the chairs in the row and headed toward the door. Sandra glared at her, clacking a Jolly Rancher against her teeth. Behind her, kids were filing in for O’Brien’s next class.

“She’s tricking you!” I hissed.

“She’s just being—” she began.

“Sandra,” Lively barked from the door. “The late bell is going to ring! We can catch Robbie before his next class.”

“A jerk?” I finished.

Sandra raised her eyebrows and shoulders in my direction, then turned toward the door—and Lively. A piece of lead dropped into my middle from somewhere in my chest.

“I just want to talk to Robbie,” Sandra whispered over her shoulder.

“Ms. Harris,” Mrs. O’Brien asked, “will you be staying for a second class?”

Face burning, I gathered my bag and bumped my way around the kids settling into their seats.

“Watch it, Wide Load,” Philip Mikowski jeered as I bumped into his backpack. The tardy bell rang when I reached the hall. I leaned against the wall and let hot tears fall.

 

After fourth period, I found Sandra at her locker.

“It’s only one lunch,” she apologized. “Robbie Flan does sit with Lively sometimes,” she said, a glint of excitement in her eye. “It’ll just be this one time. And Millie will be there, so you guys can eat together.” She clicked a Jolly Rancher against her teeth. “Look, I’ll call you tonight and tell you all the stupid things they say,” she promised, and left me at the door of the caf—jilted, angry, and wishing for an Emergency Twinkie from my locker stash.

Millie had a lunchtime orthodontist appointment, so I sat alone, in a corner. I tried not to notice Sandra devouring her pimento loaf sandwich (her favorite) smack in the middle of Lively’s table, like she was part of the Ponytail Brigade. Once or twice I saw Sandra glancing in my direction, but every time she tried to get out of her chair Lively grabbed her arm and they started laughing about something. I forced down only half of one of my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (my favorite) and went to science early. At least there, I couldn’t hear Lively’s and Sandra’s giggles. The distance helped soothe the aching around my heart.

Between afternoon classes I found Sandra in the hall.

“It was nothing,” she said. “No big deal.”

If it was no big deal, why wouldn’t she look me in the eye?

SANDRA WON’T BECOME friends with Lively
, I kept telling myself as I trudged home from school that afternoon.
She knows what a sneaky weasel Lively is.
In fact, in fifth grade Lively had left a wet painting on a chair in the art room, and started calling Sandra “diarrhea pants” when she accidentally sat on it.
Okay, she knows Lively’s not all sugar and spice. Then why is she helping her with soccer tryouts?
I finally hit on the reason:
She’s setting her up, just like in
Lord of the Flies.
She only
wants
Lively to think she’s being friendly, then she’ll turn the tables on her.
Almost satisfied, I was sure Sandra would tell me the details about her Secret Plot to Destroy Lively during our nightly phone call . . . But the tightness in my stomach wouldn’t go away.

 

After dinner, I went back up to my room to start my homework and wait to hear from Sandra. My need to talk to her about the HuskyPeach had returned, but I didn’t know how to bring it up.

I tried addressing Theo for practice: “Hi, I might be a model.” Then, “Hey, guess what, my parents want me to go to San Francisco in two weeks for a professional photo shoot.” According to Theo’s reaction, either of those approaches sounded good. I knew better. Even if Theo could like me for who I was, putting the words “plus-sized” in front of the word “model” changed everything. It was so embarrassing. “I’m going to be a fat girl model” and “I’m in a chubby girl modeling contest,” sounded even worse. The whole situation was a cruel joke. Most people would be excited about the possibility of being a model—the glamour, the clothes, the cool parties, and doing fun stuff for magazine shoots. Everything about it should be fairy tale sweet, Hollywood cool. In place of Hollywood glamour, I got a bad sitcom. Instead of knights in shining armor, my fairy tale was filled with wormy apples. Theo Christmas watched me with sympathy, a Prince Charming with a guitar instead of a steed.

 

By eight thirty, I still hadn’t heard from Sandra. We called each other every night no later than eight fifteen, unless our families were away. She called me Mondays and Wednesdays; I called her on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I double-checked my calendar: Wednesday.
Maybe her family went out to dinner,
I thought.
Maybe they’re late getting back.
But that couldn’t be true. Sandra’s Grammie Jean, who lived with them, had to take medication every night at eight, so Sandra’s family never stayed out late.

Eight thirty-six. My stomach felt like a tangled ball of yarn.
Just call. You do it every other school night.
I stared at the phone receiver, willing it to ring.
Just call
. I wanted to hear all about the Secret Plot to Destroy Lively. I wanted to believe there was one. If I didn’t pick up the phone, I could imagine what Sandra and I would talk about—how great it would be to laugh at what Lively and her lame friends said at lunch.

Eight forty-two. The imaginary conversations weren’t interesting anymore. Before I could give it much thought, I picked up the phone with slick hands and punched her number. The purr of the ring tickled my ear. One . . . two . . . three . . . The McGees’ voice mail picked up on the fourth ring when they weren’t home. A click.

“Hello?” Slurp, smack. It was Sandra.

“Hey,” I said, swallowing what felt like an entire Jolly Rancher.

“Celeste? Wait—what day is it? Is it Thursday?” The candy clicked against her teeth.

“Uhh, no. Wednesday. But it was getting late, and I . . .” I couldn’t think of what to say.

“Oh no! I totally lost track of time. Umm, well, I’m on the other line. Can I call you after?”

Sandra knew my parents don’t like the phone to ring after nine.
And who was she on the other line with, anyway?
Part of me knew. Really knew. “That’s okay. We’ll talk tomorrow,” I said, staring up at my bedroom ceiling.

“Sorry. Okay, then,” she said. “I should get back. Um, Lively is going to her first Kick Off tryout tomorrow and I’m just trying to give her an idea what to expect. It’s no big deal.”

“Sure,” I said, blinking. “No big deal.”

“And guess what?” She went on without waiting for my answer. “She told me a new way to pull my hair back that’ll make my eyes look bigger.
And
she thinks that Robbie Flan might have been looking at me in science today!”

“Great,” I responded.

After Sandra clicked back to Lively’s call, I sat with the receiver to my ear, hoping she’d change her mind, and hoping the deep, throbbing pain in my middle would go away. But you can only take so much silence.

I dropped the phone onto my green comforter. To distract myself, I picked up the PeachFest Modeling Challenge itinerary and gave it a closer look. After dinner, Mom insisted that I bring it upstairs so I could get used to the idea. The first event was an interview and photo shoot at the company’s headquarters.
PeachWear models,
the insert said,
are girls who are both engaging personalities
and
beauties. The interview process is designed for you to show us your sparkly, bubbly you! It’s our goal to have the HuskyPeach represented by girls who are willing to take a bite out of life and savor every moment.
Wrinkling my nose, I thought,
Life’s not all we “Husky Peaches” take bites out of.
Attached was a card that I had to return to confirm my candidacy for the contest.

According to the PeachFest Modeling Challenge TimeLine, the interview and photo shoot would take place a week from Saturday, then the other two events would be spaced out over four weeks. The PeachWear Spring Fling San Francisco Fashion Extravaganza was scheduled for May 19. There was something significant about that date, but my brain wasn’t making connections—probably because the perfumed paper was making my eyes water.

I could just not go,
I thought.
Refuse.
Really, what could Mom and Dad do? Make me? Force me to sit through the interview? Ground me until I agreed to be in a fashion show? Besides, there was no way I would win. To prove it, I slid off the bed and stood in front of the mirror over my dresser.

Flat brown hair, brown eyes, light skin. There wasn’t anything unique or distinctive about my features: straight nose, round lips. Definitely
not
model material. I stepped back for a wider view.
Especially
not model material: round, round, round. Moon-shaped face, a round body, and a belly that pushed at the front of my shirts and pants when I was forced to wear something other than my track pants—and I owned a few pairs that had gotten snug.
Models
had skinny bodies, big boobs, and gorgeous eyes and hair. Models’ thighs did not rub together when they walked, models did not get out of breath when climbing stairs, and models
absolutely
did not throw up on their gym teacher’s shoes after chugging diet drinks.