True Colors (8 page)

My stomach felt like I had psychotic butterflies clog dancing in there the next morning. Devon and I spent a half hour doing our hair and makeup. We weren't supposed to wear makeup, but there was no way I was going to the audition with puffy eyes, a blotchy broken-out face, and without any brow color. I put on sheer foundation to cover my spots, powder because I get greasy, Little Rose mascara and brow pencil, lip stain, and I borrowed some of Devon's cream blush. Devon had a black wrap dress on and I put on my outfit.

Mrs. Myeski gave us our numbers, and we had to wait in a huge line to do a quick interview. A man named Noah interviewed me and asked me about my modeling background. Somehow I didn't think he'd be impressed with the fact I pretended my hallway was a runway, so I said I had a big interest in fashion and photography. I had to admit my cell phone pics always came out excellent. He stared at me for a minute and then nodded. He gave me a packet to fill out and called the next number. Devon was already filling out her forms in the lobby.

“Some of the girls are doing their auditions,” she said. “Wanna sneak in and watch?”

I nodded. We sat in the back as one girl practiced walking for the judges. She had thick dark hair down to her waist, and you could tell she knew she was hot.

“Monique, your nose is a little flat from the front. I don't think print work will be right for you,” one of the judges said.

They thought
her
nose was flat? She could win a beauty pageant compared to me. Devon and I looked at each other.

“She's amazing,” she said.

The next girl was almost six feet tall with long spiral curled dark hair. She didn't even walk in front of the judges. She, like, sashayed or something. The judges asked about her hair, and she said it was natural. She claimed she never even used a curling iron or rollers either. I thought I was going to puke. There was no way I could compete against her. No way. Devon and I sat through the first hour of auditions. Out of all the girls there were maybe three who weren't sophisticated, and even they looked better than me. I felt bad for Devon since the judges had already told four other girls how curly hair was the most difficult to deal with. I bet they still picked the tall girl with the spiral curls though. Devon grabbed my hand, and we went into the hallway.

“I feel sick right now,” she said. “I should have straightened my hair again. Why did I bother washing it this morning?”

“You could still run up to the room and change it,” I said. “But it looks gorgeous natural.”

“Sometimes it gets frizzy when I use a flatiron, and I wouldn't have time to fix it right. I only washed it and wore it curly today because the stupid sheet they handed out said to look as natural as possible. Crap, I'm sweating so bad,” she said. “I'm going to start frizzing for sure now.”

We were in the next group to audition. I watched one African-American girl curling her eyelashes in the practice area. She looked like she was thirty, but somebody said she was only sixteen. There was no way I could go in there. I didn't belong there, and I wasn't even sure I wanted to. A couple of the girls were talking about their hair extensions, and it was obvious some of them had had plastic surgery already. I looked like a little kid. Devon tried to make me feel better and reminded me that the judges said they were looking for a “fresh faced girl next door.” Yeah, tell it to the girl in the super tiny dress over there. Plus, there was the fact we'd have to do “modeling challenges” on the TV show if we made it to the third level. In the past the show had made girls pose with snakes and have pictures taken underwater.

I would die if they made me touch a snake or pose with a tiger like Talisa had to on the show last season. I knew it was just to get people to watch the show, but it made me want to throw up just thinking about it. As I glanced around I wondered what kind of look they were hoping to find in this competition. A bunch of gorgeous girls had already been cut from the morning group, and some odd, scrawny girls had already moved on to the next level. I looked around the room to see if there were any regular, normal looking girls there. I saw one plain girl who was going in for her audition. I stood in the doorway to watch. As she walked the runway, I noticed she had slouched the whole way. I thought she'd get cut for sure, but the judges applauded when she was done. Devon and I just stared at each other.

“They liked
her
?” Devon asked.

“Don't get mad, but I'm not doing it. I can't go up there. I'll make a fool of myself, and to be honest, I don't want to hear what they're going to say about me,” I said.

“Come on, we made it this far.”

I shook my head.

“Would you at least pretend you're going to so you can go in with me and be there to give me moral support? Then you can back out right before it's your turn. If you don't want them to focus on any flaws then just trip on purpose so they'll focus on the falling instead,” she said. “Besides, you got this far, and aren't you a little curious about what they'd say?”

Part of me was dying to know what the judges would say. One time Ericka and I played “Truth or Dare” and she asked me what I thought her best and worst features were. I went first and said her eyes were her best feature, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings, so I said her only bad feature was how her hair got a little frizzy in the rain sometimes. However, she told me my worst features were my “super pale” hair which just “lay there,” and how I was “too tall.” She said my best feature was my hands. Hands. Who even looks at those? I couldn't sleep all night. I just kept picturing myself looking like a used mop.

“Please go in with me?” Devon asked. “You can even get out of line right before you're called, but I'd feel a lot better if I knew you were there with me.”

I had gotten this far and maybe the judges would say I wasn't as gross as I thought I was or maybe they'd point out something I could do with my hair. Besides, my mom had spent a lot on the hotel room — not to mention all the stuff she had bought me for the competition. I decided to try out, and we went to line up. Devon's number was called. The rest of us had to stand backstage to wait, so I couldn't hear what the judges were saying to her. She looked so beautiful under the lights and walked in like she owned the place, but there were girls here who already looked like professionals. She came backstage, and her eyes were watery.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She nodded. “They said I was probably too short even for petite modeling and how curly hair is hard to work with. I know I won't make the cut, but at least I tried. Let's just go to the lounge and watch TV or something. I don't want to see my mom yet,” she said. “I feel kind of stupid for dragging her here in the first place.”

A woman with a headset came over to us. “Number forty-seven is next.”

I held up my number.

“Oh, you're still going to try out?” Devon asked.

I shrugged. “Might as well. Wait for me outside?” I walked onto the stage, and the judges had me walk and turn for them.

“Is this your real hair color? Or do you lighten it?” one of the judges asked.

Great, it was so freakishly light they thought I bleached it.

“It's my natural color.”

“Can you pull your hair up away from your face?” the woman asked me. I pulled my hair back in a ponytail, and they had me look side to side to check out my profile. “Thank you. Please get your information packet from Janette. We'll see you in Detroit.”

“What?” I asked.

The male judge smiled. “You're moving on to the next round. Congratulations.”

I was stunned as I walked away. Janette, the woman with the headset, handed me an envelope with release forms and told me the next segment would be televised. I almost knocked over a potted plant as I headed for the door. Devon was outside waiting for me.

“I made it,” I said. “They put me through to the next round.

“For real?” she asked. I nodded and she gave me a half-hug, but then her arms went sorta limp. “This is gonna be so embarrassing. Everyone back home is expecting me to be a model. I feel so guilty for making my mom come here,” she said as her eyes filled up. “What a waste.”

“Yeah, but nobody has to know what happened,” I said. “We can tell people you thought it over and decided not to do it because you'd have to miss too much school.”

“Nobody would believe I quit because of school. This sucks. I wanted to be on the show,” she said.

We sat in the lounge trying to come up with a believable story before we went to see her mom. We decided to tell people she didn't even try out because we found out there was a lot more to doing the show than she thought. We went to tell her mom she changed her mind, and I thought Mrs. Abrams looked relieved. Her mom took us out to lunch, and Devon wanted to split a hot fudge cake, but I was worried the chocolate might break me out.

“So? Just use some skin cream. This cake looks so good,” she said.

I wanted to say, “But what if my skin doesn't clear up in time for the next round?” but I didn't want her to be jealous and get mad at me. She ordered the cake and I tried a little, but said I was full from lunch. We packed up and got in her mom's SUV. I thought we'd talk about the auditions, but she took out her headphones, put on some music, and curled up with her pillow. I couldn't tell if she was sleeping or not, so I just stared out the window. Mrs. Abrams dropped me off, and Devon gave me a hug as she helped me unload my stuff. When I got inside, I told my mom all about the competition. She was happy for me, but she was in a weird mood. Normally, the weekend was our lazy time, but as soon as I finished telling her about the audition, she was telling me it was time to redo my bedroom. Where was this coming from? I liked the wood paneled walls because it made my room feel, I dunno, warm and cozy, and I didn't want to change it.

I wanted to call my dad to tell him about the competition, but mom said we could call him later since the free long distance minutes on her cell phone didn't kick in until the evening. Instead, we went to the home improvement store and looked through the wallpaper books while I finished telling her about my trip.

“I'm excited for you, but I'm a little… apprehensive,” she said.

“Huh?”

“Are you sure you want to go through with this? There's going to be even more competition in the next round, and I don't want to see you get hurt,” she said.

Great, my own mother didn't think I stood a chance. I told her I was just doing it for the experience, which was what Devon had told her parents to convince them to let her try out in the first place. Apparently, as long as Mom thought I wasn't in it to be a supermodel, she was okay with it. I changed the subject by showing her a wallpaper sample. Mom scrunched up her nose and said she wanted something classic, which meant boring. We tried the kid's wallpaper books next since the designs were more fun. The smell of the glue and turning page after page and finding the same design in different colors was driving me crazy.

“How about painting the room?” she asked. “It might be harder since the wood is dark, but we could check into it.”

Mom got up and asked a worker about painting the wood in my room. He said we'd need to clean and prime the walls, but it wouldn't be a problem. I wanted a bright shade of royal blue, which was the color of my favorite fleece blanket. I looked at every paint chip of blue in the store, but I couldn't find one I liked. Mom suggested a pale blue, but I wanted something darker.

“You don't want too dark and gloomy. The room is small, and a lighter color would make it look bigger,” she said. “And we can put up a border, too.”

I was tired, thirsty, and about to give up on life when she pushed a peach colored paint chip in front of me.

“Whaddya think?” she asked. I lifted my head off my arms and shrugged. It didn't make me sick.

“Grapefruit. Not too light, not too dark and one of the flowers in your blanket is this color,” she said.

We stood in line with drop cloths, rollers, and other painting supplies. Mom asked if I was sure about the color, but I was too tired to argue and it wasn't like I had to worry about how it would look in front of my friends. No one would see it but my mom and me. We got home and Mom and I moved my furniture out of my room and cleaned the walls. I didn't do a great job, but I figured I could always put up posters if the walls looked bad. I thought using a roller to put on the primer would be easy, but my arms and legs hurt like crazy. We finished putting the primer on and then collapsed on the couch.

“Where are you going to sleep tonight?” she asked.

“In my bed — oh crap, my bed is in pieces. Do you think we'll be finished by tomorrow?” I asked.

“Doubt it and even if we were I wouldn't want you breathing in paint fumes at night. You're crazy enough already,” she said yawning. “We can pull out the loveseat in the den.”

The den was so small the foot of the bed touched the bookcase across from it. I put on my sweats, grabbed my stuffed mouse and blanket, and slid under the covers. I still hadn't called my dad, but I was tired so I went to bed anyway. I ended up sleeping in until one o'clock the next day. Mom and I were too tired to put on a second coat of primer, even though the walls looked kind of splotchy.

“Do you think it matters it looks… stonewashed?” she asked. “Should we call and ask the guy at the store?”

“It looks stone-
what
? I don't care what it looks like. I can't do it again,” I said.

Mom pried open a can of paint, and we both stopped when we saw the color.

“Was it this orange in the store?” she asked.

We decided to put on the first coat and hope for the best. Painting was easier than putting on primer, but the paint went on darker in some parts because of my crappy job as a cleaner/primer applier. Oh well. I slopped paint on the ceiling and on the floor a couple times, but the spots on the floor could be covered up with furniture, and who looks at the ceiling anyway? I went to see how mom was doing and saw her staring at the wall she had just finished.