She’s been scouted by Ford and Elite — real New York agencies. Micah, the agent for Elite — a tall black guy in silver eyeliner — said that Felice was “heart-stopping.” Everyone says that Felice looks like Elizabeth Taylor — all pleased with themselves, as if she were hearing this for the first time. It used to bug Felice: she pictured that squat, henlike woman in her wig and jewels, holding hands with Michael Jackson. But one day, Duffy brought over an old movie magazine while Felice and Berry lounged at their café table. He opened it and jabbed at the photo. “There. Look. You kids really are morons. You really don’t know anything, do you? That’s Elizabeth Taylor.”
Berry craned over the page. “Wow, you really kind of do. Look at her. You guys could be related.”
A little nearsighted, Felice held the magazine closer, startled to see the resemblance — the straight brow bone, glimmering eyes, the fine jaw; only Felice’s straight hair was self-hacked below the shoulders and Liz’s hair was a sable bob, thick as a paintbrush. She finally realized what a compliment this comparison was.
Now Duffy smiles at her from behind the front counter. “Hey, Felix, where you been hiding?” She knows she’s his favorite model. He opens the picture notebook, extricates an envelope and pulls out a wad of bills, then starts peeling off twenties: he does this for her once in a while, whether there’s work or not. “Here, scram, go have fun.”
She tucks the bills into her front pocket. She’s actually disappointed. “Can’t you use me?”
“We’re closing up tomorrow night — there’s a hurricane watch. You got a place to stay?” He looks over the crowded little store. “Could’ve used you this morning. Bunch of scouts here, talking about another reality show.”
Felice balances her board on one hip. “Here? How many shows do they need about tattoo stores?”
“A lot, I guess.” Duffy says, running his petal-tattooed knuckles over his bare scalp. “They do it, this place’ll go nuclear.”
“Awesome,” Felice says, unaccountably glum.
“You shouldn’t be working tonight anyway. Isn’t it getting to be your birthday?” He taps at his grubby keyboard. “Yup — there you are,” he says, pointing at the screen. “You and my mama — the same day — August 23rd. Tomorrow!” His lips move silently as he reads. There isn’t a lot on the screen, just a couple of fake names — Felix Moreno — a fraudulent Social Security number and address, some other odds and ends he helped her invent. Apart from the year, the birth date information she gave him is accurate. “Your big two-oh girl! Here.” He peels off a few more bills. “Get indoors and have champagne. You can have a hurricane party.”
On her way out, Felice slips through a clot of Danish tourists, six-footers with hair the whiteness of candle tips and lashless ice eyes. She notices that fifteen-year-old Irma (pronounced Ear-ma) and her thirty-two-year-old mother-agent, Pax, also happen to be there. They started showing up on go-sees last year. Pax sits on the love seat with her gray-tipped bulimic’s teeth. She clutches on her lap a lavishly ugly double-buckled Fendi croc purse. Irma reclines in one of the store’s hiked-up dentist’s chairs and gazes into the distance as Maurice spray-tats a ten-color Hawaiian Tropics Betty Page down the length of her leg. Felice feels a flash of anger: since when is Irma getting Felice’s modeling work? Duffy, still at the front counter bantering with a couple of guys in navy and white Lauren, notices her glare, “She got here first.” He shrugs.
Pax smirks and singsongs at the ceiling, “Somebody’s getting street-kid skin.”
Felice’s mind darkens, her thoughts turn into ropy strands; she thinks of pointing out Irma’s speedball shivers. Then she notices that Pax is hunched forward, holding her daughter’s knobby hand. Felice stares a moment. She turns away, pushing through the shop and out the glass door.
LINCOLN ROAD GLITTERS with reflections — display windows, doors, kiosks. As she walks, the street becomes a flicker book of images. In sixth grade, Hannah taught her to let her eyes unfocus and detach herself from the public gaze: “Don’t ever look at people — they have to look at you.” Felice has always relied on her reflection for consolation — beauty her only certainty. She walks up to the rectangular mirrored column flanking a gelato store. There’s a faint shadow ringing each eye, a crease at the corners of her lips, and her neck juts forward at an unappealing angle she’d never noticed before. Plunged into a black mood, Felice stares down the length of Lincoln Road: everywhere, it seems, are girls and their mothers. She passes the tables at the bookstore café, where a waiter in an ankle-length half-apron stops and watches her. Annoyed, she returns his look. Then she feels the bottom of her stomach drop: The date with her mother. Felice looks at the table where her mother probably waited for hours. How could she forget? She squeezes her eyes shut, presses fingertips against the corners so hard that white phosphene ghosts leap inside her eyelids. Stupid. Stupid.
She feels she is falling into a canyon of vaporous sadness. She walks deeper into the shopping corridor, the jangle of voices, electronic music broadcast from the boutiques, and the hooded wash of trade winds and palms. She becomes angry with herself for her sadness. Sorrow is a luxury, like that of home and school — like living in the gentle, indoor world.
SHE USED TO FEEL concerned about keeping up, knowing things like who the prime minister of England was, or what war was happening where. For a time, she tried going into the libraries — for the comforting quiet, the soft furniture — as well as for the books. But librarians were more eagle-eyed than teachers or police. They knew instantly who was actually working on a school project and who was just another street rat.
Two sisters used to run the small south branch of the Miami Beach library, Ms. Vera and Ms. Hoff. They let Felice stay and read all day long. They tolerated a limited amount of napping in the padded chairs. Ms. Hoff showed Felice how to set up an email account and how to browse online for news and current events. Ms. Vera gave Felice novels: Dubliners; Pride and Prejudice; The Sun Also Rises; Catch-22; Beloved. One day, Felice came across a novel on the Recommended Fiction shelf. It was about a man who was obsessed with young girls—nymphets. Hannah had used that word. When they had Mr. Rendell for orchestra, Hannah had said, he loves nymphets — watch out. As Felice read, the book began to bother her. She was angry with the show-offy language, some of which she couldn’t follow. But the story — about this babyish girl who fell into an old man’s clutches — captivated and horrified her and filled her with near-sensory memories.