Braless in Wonderland (12 page)

“I just want you to be realistic,” he said. Dad worried that majoring in English wasn't practical and I wouldn't get a high-paying job in the future. But I really didn't want to study anything else. He was always hinting that I follow in his footsteps or go into the corporate world. Yuck.

“Two more weeks, Allee. That's it. If you don't get any work by then, you're coming home.”

 

AAAAAAHHH!!!
Every time I thought about what Dad had said, panic gripped my throat like a python squeezing it and I had to stop and force myself to calm down and breathe.

I could not, could not,
could not
go home. I just couldn't. Everyone was going to say I was a loser. A joke. I'd be pointed at, laughed at, ridiculed.
“Imagine, Allee Rosen telling everybody she was modeling when she wasn't.”
Going home was NOT an option.

“Allee, you don't have to make that face. They don't look that bad. Turn around again.” Miguel and I were at a vintage store, the last stop on Miguel's shopping hit parade. Summer had told me he loved vintage stores. I invited her to come along, but she had a session with her trainer.

Miguel had already taken me to Chroma and Lavish and a few other expensive boutiques just for browsing and celebrity-hunting (we saw Nicole Richie), and then we went to Urban Outfitters and a few other stores for serious purchasing. So far, I'd bought some bright-colored minidresses, some tops, belts, and a rhinestone gun “to give your current wardrobe a little za-za-fritz.” Now we were looking at jeans. “You know what? You've lost weight, Allee girl. You need a size smaller.” He was right. These jeans were hanging on me. All my clothes had gotten really baggy lately. “What diet have you been on?”

“The I-don't-have-time-to-eat diet.”

“You're not doing those crazy Brazilian weight-loss pills that are going around, are you? You don't want to get too thin. You're not high fashion, you're a commercial girl.”

“No, I would never take pills. Hey, what about those?” I held up another pair of jeans with embroidery on the pockets.

“Nah. Not for you. And the smaller the pocket the bigger your booty looks. But then again, the whole big booty thing is in again now, so I don't know, maybe…”

“So, it's true,” I groaned. “I do have a big one.”

“Yeah, and you'll slam all the Latino castings with that thing. Own it, love it. It's brash, it's brazen, it's saying hello to the world whether you like it or not—or good-bye, depending on which way you're walking, and—”

“It's that big? Even though I lost a couple pounds?”

“Allee. You can't spell ‘fant
as
tic' without ass. Just ask J.Lo.”

“Um, actually, that's not true. It's f-a-n-t—”

“You're bootay-licious, show it off, girl. In this Marc Jacobs skirt. Wow, it's only forty bucks.”

I tried it on. Miguel paired it with a sequined tube top, a big, floppy hat, and a gazillion bangles. When I came out of the fitting room he went, “Bull's-eye. Give me a catalog pose.” I put my hand on my hip and stared blankly into the distance. He clapped his hands.

“But, Miguel, this looks like a costume. Real people don't dress like this.”

“Real people? Who cares about them?
Pero
, you know what? Maybe that's your problem, worrying about real people. You gotta forget what's real, Allee. Modeling is all about make-believe and dressing up, you know? It's all about fun.” Again with the fun. If one more person told me to have fun, I'd shoot them with my rhinestone gun. “Didn't you ever dress up your Barbie? I did. In secret. This is the same thing, except you get to
be
Barbie.”

“
Uch
, Barbies give little girls self-esteem issues. No one can look like that. Can't I dress up in something a little more, you know, me?”

“You're not home anymore. You don't have to be the same person you are at home. But, okay, let's go a different way.” The next outfit he put together was a cropped cardigan over a snug polo, plaid mini, and little square, blue, plastic glasses (we popped the lenses out). I stepped out of the fitting room and he went, “
Voilà,
the hot nerdy thing still works. This look is great for TV, when they're casting for the high school kid or college kid, except they'll make you lose the glasses so they can see your face better. Wear them on top of your head instead of a headband. You can wear flats with this—loafers or Keds even—but the rest of the time, heels, girl, high heels.”

“I can't walk in heels. They make me look like a spaz.”

“Have you practiced?”

“No.”

“Well, then, what do you expect? Models don't come out of a box with all the moves. Look in the mirror, practice your poses, practice, practice, practice. And wear bright colors, because a life without color is a life without color.” He gasped. “Damn, that's good. I need to write that down and save it for when I have my own makeover show on the Style channel.” He held up an air microphone. “This is Miguel Sanchez-Garcia signing off, reminding you that a life without color is a life without color.” He winked. “Thanks for watching.”

Miguel still had to pick out one more outfit, something I could wear to a club. Except I wasn't sure I could trust him on this one. First of all, he insisted we had to get it at this two-story shop called CeeCee Bloom, specializing in clothing and accessories for cross-dressers. Excuse me, but a lot of the clothing in CeeCee Bloom was in the omigod-are-you-kidding-me category, although Abuela would have loved all the wigs, pancake makeup, and feather boas.

“Allee!” Uh-oh. He had something very glittery in his hands. “
Ven aqui.
Try this on.”

He handed me an itty-bitty dress. “Miguel, are you sure?” I could just hear Brynn right now, shooting some insult at me, making everyone laugh. What had gotten into me? Why, why,
why
did I care what they thought? I sounded like my mother, worrying what people would say. Or The Fluff, obsessing about clothes. “I'm not sure about this one.”

“Stop whining. Just try it on.”

The dress was black with silver straps, backless, and very short. It looked great on me, showed off my toned legs and arms. I really liked the way the clingy material, well, clung to me. I felt like a different person in this. I had to give him props. I walked out of the dressing room and Miguel sang, “She's a sexy supah stah…bow chicka bow bow…”

I smiled. “I never thought I'd say this, but I love it.”

“I knew I was right about you. There's a you that you haven't even met yet. Oh, yes,
niña
. There is.”

“How do I wear a bra with this?”

“You don't.”

“Oh.” I didn't know if I could do that. “This is black, though. What about ‘a life without color—'”

“Forget the rule at night. It's a daytime rule. And the minidress will never go out. It's the little trend that could.
Ay
, Brynn will die of jealousy when she sees you in this, just die.” I couldn't help beaming. “It's missing something, though. Here, try this.” He took a black leather belt with studs right off the mannequin next to us. He also took off the dog collar. “Don't give me that look. Try them on.” I did. And I looked ridiculoso. But Miguel didn't think so. “See? It works. A little bit swank, a little bit spank.”

“How about I get the belt, but not the dog collar?”

After a lot of eye-rolling and protesting, he gave up on the dog collar.

I went back to the dressing room to change, and I studied myself in the mirror for a long time.
A new me I haven't met yet.
I wanted to be this person I was looking at, this smiling girl in a great dress. I wasn't a buzzkill, like Brynn said. I'd just never tried to be part of things. They were right that I didn't take part in the fun. It was an old habit, me always being a fly on the wall, never being at the party, just hearing about it later or watching from a distance.

But I didn't want to be the person I was back home anymore. I wanted to be more like Alice. I slowly turned around, looking at myself in the mirror from every angle.
It's all about make-believe…
what would Alice do if she were me? She'd not only wear this dress, she'd wear it to the mad tea party and dance all night. Alice didn't hesitate to try new things.

No more clipping my BlackBerry on. Good-bye, Allee. Hello, Alice.

I bought the dress and belt, wondering how I was going to work up the guts to wear it, plus a Che Guevara T-shirt and a gift for my sister, a necklace with purple blue stones, the same color as her eyes. Miguel bought a mauve satin pajama set and matching eye mask that said
Sleeping Beauty.
Then we left and went out onto Lincoln Road, an open-air pedestrian mall of shops, art galleries, and restaurants. We passed Rollerbladers, women with dogs in their purses, Frankenmuscle fitness freaks, stray cats, kids on scooters, business-suit banker types, Euro-backpackers, and a performance artist spitting dried fruit onto a blank canvas. It made me feel alive, being part of this funky human salad.

I really, really, really didn't want to go back to Cape Comet.

“
Qué te pasa
,
niña?
You seem distracted.”

“I don't know if I can pull this off.”

“Borrow my attitude and you'll be fine. Isaac Mizrahi says style is all about conviction.”

“No, no, not just about the dress. I mean about being a model. Maybe it's not meant to be. That's what my dad said.”

“You know what my dad said? My dad said I should be a police officer like my brothers.”

I stopped in my tracks and looked down at his ninety-eight-pound frame. “You? A police officer?”

“You heard me.”

“Was your dad blind? Deaf? Brainless?”

“All of the above. Come on, I'll tell you about it over lunch. Let's go to the News.”

“What's the News?”

“The News Cafe.” He put his hand over his heart. “You can get newspapers and magazines from all over the world there
and
a fabulous spinach wrap with goat cheese and pecans. Versace was on his way there to get his morning coffee and paper when he was shot,
Que Dios lo tenga en su gloria.
” He crossed himself.

We sat outside at a little white table with a green umbrella over us. Two bizarre, pudgy old ladies walked by wearing matching yellow suits with black polka dots and matching wide-brimmed hats that were also yellow with black polka dots. They reminded me of Tweedledee and Tweedledum. “The Skull sisters,” Miguel said, after they'd strolled by. “Very famous artists. They do 3-D paintings, mostly scenes of Cuba.” A black guy in a one-piece green leotard Rollerbladed past us, practically in slow motion. It was like he was barely moving. “We call him the Green Hornet.” A man wearing cargo shorts and a top hat was showing someone a card trick at a nearby table. A mad hatter on the beach? I looked at Miguel. “I don't know him.” This place was as surreal as Wonderland, full of bizarre characters. Sometimes when I walked around here, I wasn't sure if I was really seeing what I was seeing.

After lunch, we walked two blocks over to Washington, to have coffee at Kitsch and Dish. The walls were cluttered with metal lunch boxes from the seventies, Cabbage Patch dolls, and other assorted garage sale decor. Our waitress was in her sixties and she was wearing wooden, pink flamingo earrings that kinda blended with her rose-colored beehive. We curled up on two velvet chairs in front of a coffee table topped with Madonna's
Sex
book.

My BlackBerry kept vibrating. I ignored it. It was probably Abuela and Robby with birthday calls, and I wasn't up to doing the whole yippee, it's my birthday thing. I'd check the messages on my voice mail later. Right now I'd rather listen to Miguel telling me all about his horrific high school years with his caveman cop dad and cop brothers. “How did you survive it?” I asked him.

“I knew I'd get out of the house as soon as I could, and that dream kept me going. I've been free for two years now.” He sipped his coffee slowly, lost in thought, then put his mug down and did a little shimmy shake. “So that's the 411 on
mi familia
. I survived. But you know what? People can survive anything. It's surviving in great clothes that's the trick.”

“You really should have your own show.”

“I know.” Dramatic gasp. “Don't look, there's the guy who stood me up last night.”

“Where?” Of course I looked anyway, but only saw the back of some blond guy.

“Piece of
mierda.
Some men are about as useful as a sleeveless turtleneck.” He sipped his coffee. “Okay, so, back to what I was saying. This business attracts survivors, I think, people who've made it through rough times and reinvented themselves, like me.”

“Yeah, well, I better reinvent myself pretty soon or I'll be outta here.” I told him about Dad's time limit. “I have to start getting booked, Miguel. Like, tomorrow. Seriously. I have to.”

“You will,
niña
. You've got the body, the skin, the teeth, your hair is magnif. And now you've got the right clothes. You just need to find your ticket.”

“What do you mean, find my ticket?”

“Every model's got a ticket.”

“Like what?”

“I'll give you an example. You know that April girl, the one who books every catalog and every magazine but looks like a starving refugee?”

“Yeah. I saw her yesterday.”

“Did you notice her eyes?”

“No, but they were probably blah like the rest of her.”

“Take a closer look the next time you see her. Her eyes are such a light green they're almost yellow,
te lo juro
, like a golden apple. You can only notice it when she has makeup on. It's amazing to see on film what she can do with them, what she can express. I've seen her book. I'll show it to you. Anyway, her ticket is her eyes.”

“So a ticket is like a gimmick.”

“No. A gimmick is something you make up, work at, like Summer's dumb blond act.”

“Um…excuse me, but I don't exactly think that's an act, Miguel. She's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, trust me.”

“No, trust
me,
she's dumb all the way to the bank. Gimmicks never last, though, because anyone can have one. Tickets are one of a kind. A ticket is what you already have. A quality only you can wind up and work. It's what makes you stand out.
Entiendes?
”

“Maybe. I'm not sure.”

“Okay, there was this one model, Susie M? She's in New York now, but she had the whole package, like you, and she still wasn't getting booked. Then one day she realized she had this dancer's body, graceful,
elegante
, you know? Because she'd had serious ballet training since she was like, in diapers or something. So anyway, her booker set her up with this fantastic photographer and she did these nude shots, really artistic, high-concept, great lighting. Guess what happened after that?

“What?”

“She blew up.”

“She got fat?”

“No,
idiota
, her career blew up. She, like, doubled her day rate. Her kind of body was unique, like a sculpture or a Thoroughbred racehorse, so she used it. And that,
mi amor
, was her ticket.”

“So what's my ticket?” I couldn't wait to find out.

He sipped his coffee, shook his head. “I don't know,
niña.
That's what you have to find out. So open your eyes, girl. But not too much. It'll give your forehead wrinkles.”

 

Beeep:
“Happy birthday, Allee. Mom says to say I love you. I stopped wetting the bed. When are you coming home?”

“No, wait, Robby, it's Abuela's turn, don't hang—”
Click.

Beeeep
: “
Feliz cumpleaños, Allee
. I can't believe you are seventeen now, almost the age I got married.
Dios te bendiga, mi vida
. Did you know I was married at eighteen? And did you know I had to quit my job at Wal-Mart because you weren't here to take me? I could have been a model, you know. Just be careful. It's a doggy doggy world. They all the time want sexy pictures. Allee, don't do it. The pictures will end up on the aquanet and then everyone will say you are a
puta.
”

Click.

 

Another week went by with no work. Just castings. I was more worried than ever about having to go home. I could almost feel the pull of Mom and Dad, sucking me back to Cape Comet. It wasn't that they wanted me to fail. I knew they were proud of me and wanted me to succeed, but I also knew they were insanely overprotective and wanted me close by. If Mom hadn't had Robby to take care of, she probably would have moved to South Beach with me. What would my parents do when I went to Yale?

I was running out of time, so I did some research and came up with a strategy.

I told The Fluff all about my shopping trip with Miguel. “You should see the little black dress I got. You'd love it. It is so you.”

“I can't see you in a little black dress. Oh, guess what?”

“We're adopted. I knew we weren't related.”

“I'm making a lot of clothes now. There's, like, this fashion show at school the Key Club is doing, a benefit for the hurricane victims, and they asked me to sew a few of the pieces. You should see me. I'm sewing till one in the morning every night.”

“When are you doing your homework?”

“What are you, Mom?” she shouted.

“Sorry, sorry. That's actually really cool. I wish I could sew.”

“I can make you something and send it to you if you want. A dress, maybe. You need clothes.”

“Okay.” I doubted she was making anything I could wear in South Beach. Cape Comet was so behind the times with clothing. I could really see that now, living here. But she wanted to do something nice for me, and that was cool. “Thanks, that'd be great,” I said.

Claudette was at a casting for Dark and Lovely, while Summer, Brynn, and I were at the Ritz-Carlton pool, lying on lounge chairs in bikinis, pretending we were guests. We had snuck in from the beach without going through the lobby. It was Summer's idea. I spotted a couple of other models here, probably doing the same thing. The girls were long-limbed and the guys were all either lanky or built, with shaved chests and perfect abs. There were some families here too, with little kids running around.