Gorgeous. Part 24

I recognized his voice immediately. It was the way he said my name, slow and sure, like he knew me better than I was admitting knowing myself, exactly the way he had said it while stretching his long legs out in front of him while sitting on my couch, trading me gorgeousness for my cell phone.

But this time, after my name, even though I didn't answer, he said, "Congratulations."

I, of course, thought he was talking about Tyler asking me out, and/or my self-protectively smart decision to reject him before he could (eventually, inevitably, heart-breakingly) reject me. So I just said, "Thanks."

But the voice said, "You are a finalist."

"In what?"

He paused, then said, "Zip magazine. The New Teen." magazine. The New Teen."

I stood there blinking (my real talent) while my whole family looked at me like, What's going on What's going on? Or maybe, Why are you rudely preempting your sister's beautiful story of altruism? Why are you rudely preempting your sister's beautiful story of altruism?

"My a.s.sistant will text the address and details, but we'd like you to come in for the final shoot and interview, with me, on Sat.u.r.day. Noon."

"With you?"

"I'm the editor in chief."

"No way."

"Who else would I be?" he asked, and hung up.

I closed the phone.

"Who was that?" Mom asked.

"The devil," I said.

"Allison," Mom said, a warning brewing in her voice. "I asked you a question."

"And I answered," I said. "I'm a finalist in the modeling contest."

Phoebe, gotta hand it to her, immediately jumped around whooping and yelling, hugging and congratulating me, while the other three stood there dumbfounded and kept asking if I was telling the truth.

I a.s.sured them I was. Dad turned away to flip the chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s on the grill. Mom, meanwhile, grilled me: what did that mean, what was this magazine anyway, what had I done to make the finals of this compet.i.tion.

I tried to answer calm, cool, and collected, but it was hard. I was really wis.h.i.+ng I could have a minute just to myself to jump around and shriek (or maybe Phoebe could be there, because she was so purely happy for me it was crazy). A finalist? ME? Seriously?

I could tell Mom was trying to get the information largely to avoid the obvious question of Why would they choose you, honey? Why would they choose you, honey?

I answered every question as best I could, and as factually. No, I hadn't done anything more embarra.s.sing than cry, a little, but not (seeing Dad's alarmed face) because of anything the photographer did or asked me to do, just because I felt so inadequate. But my clothes stayed on.

If I won? Well, I said, of course probably I wouldn't win, but if I did, I would get to go to Nice, France, for one week over the summer with one of my parents, all expenses paid, for an extended photo shoot. Mom and Dad glanced at each other and Phoebe sat down, her chin cupped in her fists, watching me like it was a star sighting.

Quinn was still standing there with her hands on the sides of the salad bowl, looking like she'd been painted there by Vermeer.

"And," I said, "if I win, which I probably won't, of course, but if somehow I did? I would win a ten-thousand-dollar scholars.h.i.+p."

Well, that got everybody's attention. They all stared at me.

I smiled and said to Mom, "I'd give it to you. All of it. I'm sure your lawyer could figure out how to transfer it to you. I know times are tough right now, and it would feel great to me to be able to help out."

I think Mom might have misted up, I really do; it was only a second or part of a second, but time almost slowed down, and I watched a small tear form itself in Mom's eye and I swear it was a tear of pride. I really think that I did not make that up afterward to console myself.

Anyway, that possible fraction of a second was interrupted when Dad, the Zen master, kindergarten Teacher of the Year, nicest guy in the world, slammed down his grilling tongs and said, "Absolutely not."

"Absolutely not what?" I asked.

"My daughter is not prost.i.tuting herself to-"

"Daddy!" Phoebe interrupted, objecting, but he plowed right past.

"That's right, prost.i.tuting herself! What do you think selling your body is called?"

"Jed," Mom said, for once trying to calm him down. The world had flipped in an instant.

"We do not need the money that badly, Claire!"

"That's not the-"

"We can live perfectly well in a small house, without all the tinsel and glitter. I will not pimp out my daughters to chase shallow dreams of fame and fortune; I won't!"

"It's ten thousand dollars, Jed," Mom said. "It is obviously not going to make a dent, and you know it. The ten thousand dollars is far from the point, and it would belong to her, not us! Would you let Allison talk? You and I can discuss this later."

Dad turned back to the grill.

Mom and Phoebe and Quinn turned to me. But I had nothing really to say. My grand gesture, my huge success, wouldn't even make a dent. It was nothing to them. I could never be good enough, even if I won.

I shrugged. "No big deal," I muttered. "Obviously."

"It is, Allison," Mom said, leaning forward and taking my sweaty hand in her cool one. "We're very proud of you. Tell us about this compet.i.tion. A finalist!"

"No, you're not!" I said. "It won't make a difference anyway, even if Dad let me go and do it. Just forget it. Let Quinn talk more about helping underprivileged children. Then you guys can feel proud."

Dad slammed the grill shut. "You know what, Allison? We do feel proud of that. We feel proud that Quinn is reaching out to other people, trying to make the world a better place, working toward something that is bigger than herself."

"Congratulations," I said to Quinn.

"Jed!" Mom yelled.

Dad took a deep breath. "It's not that we're not proud of you, too, Allison. It's just that you don't need to give us money. Live a good life; be a good person. Money and strutting your body around are shallow goals, too shallow for you."

He wiped his hands on his ap.r.o.n and came toward me, arms outstretched. "Okay, Lemon?"

"No!" I yelled. And I ran away from him. I ran away across the backyard, past the pool, around the tennis court, across the gra.s.s, then around the house to the front. I stood at the top of the driveway, looking down it, to where it turned toward the street, and contemplated putting one foot in front of the other and never looking back. Where would I go?

Did I have the courage to run away?

Or even the desire?

Where did I want to be?

The answer was clear to me as soon as I formulated the question. I went in the door near the kitchen and up the back stairs, across the upstairs den to my room, where I stripped off my clothes and curled up tight in my bed.

I woke up knowing that someone was in the room with me and that it was dark. To my surprise, it was my mother and not the devil.

"When are you supposed to go?" she asked me.

"Sat.u.r.day at noon," I said. "I'll just call them tomorrow and say I can't..."

"You'll do no such thing," Mom said.

I sat up. "But Dad..."

"Daddy loves you very much," Mom said. "He feels very protective of you, and, honestly, very angry at me about some money issues that have nothing to do with you but which you brought up unconsciously. But that is not your problem; it's ours."

I rubbed my eyes. Mom was sitting on my couch, where the devil had sat. "Are you really here or am I dreaming?" The question I had never managed to ask him, I asked her.

She laughed. "I'm really here, Allie Cat." She came around and got on my bed, folding her slim long legs under her as she snuggled in. "And I am so proud of you."

I lay down with my back to her and said thanks.

"Not just for becoming a finalist. I didn't know you were interested in modeling."

"Neither did I," I admitted. "Figures the one thing I seem to be good at-"

"You are good at so many things-"

"Stop," I interrupted. "I'm not and it just makes me feel worse if you-"

"I didn't mean to belittle your earning power, Allison."

"Alas," I said.

She giggled behind me, then said, "Point taken. But let me tell you this, daughter of mine. I am proud of you for wanting not just to help, but to make money on your own steam. That is a good impulse, and I'm not saying that doing good in the world is anything but great, but there is power to be had in making your own money, and I applaud you for understanding and pursuing that power, as well as for your generosity in offering to share it."

We lay there for a minute before I said thank-you again.

I was just drifting off to sleep when I heard her say, "And I'm impressed that one of those dumb magazines is smart enough to spot a real beauty. We'll show 'em who's gorgeous Sat.u.r.day at noon, baby."

"Okay," I think I said, or maybe I just dreamed that.

26.

LAST DAY OF SCHOOL. Good-bye, ninth grade, and don't let the door hit you in the b.u.t.t. Good-bye, ninth grade, and don't let the door hit you in the b.u.t.t. "Tenth grade is better," Quinn a.s.sured me on our way to the bus in the morning. We both had our sungla.s.ses on, but still I could tell she was avoiding making eye contact. "Tenth grade is better," Quinn a.s.sured me on our way to the bus in the morning. We both had our sungla.s.ses 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 b.u.t.t 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 interested in working at this camp. It's not just padding my resume." in working at this camp. It's not just padding my resume."

"I never said-"

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

"The what 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 my grade is all crazy about you, but still everybody is supposed to tiptoe around your fragile ego?" 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 das.h.i.+ng 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."