"You are the new face of Civilization!" Linda Farnsworth gushed on Schuyler's cell phone. "They must have you! Don't make me beg!"
"Okay, I guess." Schuyler said, still feeling a bit dazed by Linda's exuberance.
Since Schuyler couldn't come up with a legitimate reason to deny the fashion gods (who was she to say no to Civilization?), the next morning she journeyed downtown for the scheduled photo shoot. The photo studio in far west Chelsea was housed in a mammoth block-long building that had formerly been a printing factory. The service elevator was manned by a bleary-eyed gentleman in a utility suit, who had to manually operate the lift to take Schuyler to the proper floor.
She walked down a maze of hallways, noting the many designer names and Web site addresses that looked familiar on the nameplates of the closed doors.
The photo studio was in the northeast corner. The door was propped open and loud, electronic music was blasting from the inside.
She walked inside, not quite sure what to expect. The studio was a large, open space, an all-white box with shiny white polyurethaned floors and floor-to-ceiling windows. A white «seamless» background was carved into one wall, and a tripod was set up across from it. Yawning interns were wheeling in clothing racks so that a dreadlocked stylist could examine the garments.
"Schuyler!" A scrawny man with a five o'clock shadow, wearing a shrunken T-shirt and baggy jeans, approached her holding a hand out enthusiastically. He was smoking and wearing Ray Ban aviator sunglasses.
"Hey," Schuyler said.
"Jonas Jones, remember me?" he asked, lifting his sunglasses and grinning.
"Oh … of course!" Schuyler said, a little intimidated. Jonas Jones was one of Duchesne's most notorious alums. He had graduated a few years ago. He had made a big splash in the art world with his shredded paintings. He had also done a movie, Lumberjack Quadrille, that had placed at Sundance, and his latest career turn was as a fashion photographer.
"Thanks so much for doing this," he said. "I'm sorry it's so last minute. But that's the biz." He introduced Civilization's designer, a former fit model with rock-hard abs and protruding pelvic bones.
"I'm Anka," she said cheerfully. "Sorry to get you up so early on a Saturday. But it's going to be a long day. It'll be okay, though. We have tons of doughnuts." She motioned to the buffet table laden with green-and-white Krispy Kreme boxes.
Schuyler liked her already.
"All right. Let's get you in hair and makeup," Jonas declared, pointing Schuyler toward a corner where a dressing-room mirror framed with two rows of incandescent bulbs was set up in front of two canvas-backed high chairs.
Bliss Llewellyn was sitting in one of the chairs. Linda had failed to mention that there were two faces of Civilization that year. The tall girl was already made up. Her hair had been teased into a large bouffant, and her lips were painted cherry red. She was wearing a fluffy white robe and chatting on her cell phone. Bliss gaily waved a manicured hand in Schuyler's direction.
Schuyler waved back. She hauled herself into the chair, and a British makeup artist who introduced herself as Perfection Smith began to assess the condition of her skin. At the same time, a dour hairstylist grabbed chunks of her hair to examine it, clucking his tongue in disapproval.
"Late night?" Perfection inquired, holding up Schuyler's chin to the light. "You're very dry, luv," she said in a nasal cockney accent.
"I guess," Schuyler said. She hadn't been sleeping much since The Committee meeting. It spooked her to think that while she slept, her own blood was waking up, seeping into her consciousness, and all the memories and voices of her past lives were clamoring for control of her brain. Even though Jack had explained it didn't work that way—the memories were your memories, so they were part of you, and there was nothing to be scared about—Schuyler wasn't so sure.
She closed her eyes as her face was rubbed, pinched, prodded, buffed, powdered, and slathered; and her hair was pulled, brushed, and blow-dried, almost singeing her roots.
"Ow!" she yelped, as the hair dryer came dangerously close to burning her scalp. But the grumpy hair stylist didn't even apologize.
She was also having trouble following all the directions Perfection was barking at her. Schuyler had never realized getting her makeup done would be this hard. She had to do so many things, sometimes at the same time, so that the makeup artist could do her job correctly. Perfection was like a drill sergeant. "Open. Wider. Look to the side. Look to the other side. Look at my knee. Look at the ceiling. Close your mouth. Rub your lips together. Look at me. Look at my knee."
Schuyler was exhausted by the time her transformation was finished.
“Are you ready?" Perfection asked. She wheeled the chair around so Schuyler could finally see herself in the mirror.
Schuyler couldn't believe what she saw. It was the face of her mother staring back at her. The face that smiled serenely from the wedding photos Schuyler kept underneath her bed. She was as gorgeous as a goddess.
"Oh," Schuyler said, her eyes wide. Until now, she had never known she looked like her mother.
God, she was really pretty, Bliss thought. Pretty wasn't even the word—that would be like calling Audrey Hepburn good-looking. Schuyler was transcendent. Why hadn't she ever noticed that before? Bliss wondered. She was talking to Dylan on her cell—telling him about the house party she was hosting later that night—her mom was going to D.C. to visit her dad, and Jordan was going to sleepover at a friend's. She was telling him what time to arrive when she noticed Schuyler's transformation.
Schuyler looked every inch a model. Her lips were full and glossy. They had blown out her black-blue hair so that it hung, straight and perfect as an ebony curtain, down her smooth back. The stylist had put her in a pair of tight Stitched for Civilization jeans; and underneath all those hobo layers, Bliss noticed that Schuyler had a great little figure, slim and waifish. Bliss suddenly felt like a horse next to her.
"Talk to you later, they're calling us on set," she told Dylan, folding up her phone.
"God, you look so great," Bliss whispered, when they were lined up next to each other against the white backdrop.
"Thanks," Schuyler said. "I feel so silly." She had never worn so little clothing in public before, and was trying not to feel too self-conscious about it. They were both wearing the jeans, and the jeans only—their backs were to the camera, and they were both covering their chests with folded arms, even though the stylist had pasted nude-colored Band-Aids on their breasts to cover their nipples. She had agreed to model mostly out of curiosity, a social experiment she could analyze later, but she had to admit, it was also pretty fun.
It was cold in the studio, and Jonas was yelling instructions to everyone over the Black Eyed Peas blasting from the overhead speakers. There was a frenzied atmosphere of jittery assistants and lighting technicians jumping at the photographer's every word. Bliss and Schuyler were attacked with hair spray canisters whenever there was a break. A deadpan seriousness prevailed as Jonas and Anka heatedly discussed issues such as whether their hair should be blowing in the wind or not (sexy or clichéd?), or if the jeans looked better from the front or the side.
The girls posed and pouted, trying not to blink at the flash of the camera. Suddenly feeling inspired, Bliss pulled Schuyler closer for a tight embrace.