Raw Deal (Beauty for Ashes: Book One) (2 page)

And to top it up, I’d come home to a completely different Monica. She’d become so shallow, and she was now friends with Michelle Carey and Sandy Hutton, who’d been our archenemies back in freshman year! Nevertheless, she was still good to hang out with, and school was generally okay(ish). But I just couldn’t cope with the hyperactivity and the way everyone seemed so highly strung about the most trivial of matters. Some people had real problems. Not being able to find a lipstick to match my nail polish was not that much of a crisis in the grand scheme of things.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel impatiently as the light stayed red. The after party on Thursday would probably be good, but I’d have to act all happy and giddy like Monica and all the other Kingston High queens, and the thought of that was exhausting. Also, Monica had made me really conscious of the way I spoke. I didn’t think my accent had changed, but she kept accusing me of trying to sound British, when I really wasn’t. If I went to the party, I’d have to be aware of that and make an effort not to sound pretentious by mistakenly calling a cell phone a mobile or something. I hadn’t realized it, but I had picked up a lot of UK vernacular from designers and other models. I needed to get back into LA mode.

My cell phone beeped as the light changed. No one was behind me, so I answered and put Monica on loudspeaker before moving off. “What now?”

“What now? Is that any way to answer the phone?”

“I’m driving.”

“Well, you can multitask. What are you a woman for? Anyway, I’ve got a really hot Ricci dress that you can loan if you’re worried about what to wear for Thursday. I can bring it over for you to try on now if you want. I can just see you in it—”

“Monica, I’m not ‘not coming’ because I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Not ‘not coming’? Good grief, Lexi, you’d expect a girl to speak better English after four years in England!”

“Monica, I’ll think about the party, okay? If I come, though, I’ll probably be a bit late.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve got to go somewhere else first.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere.”

“Secret boyfriend?”

I laughed. “Yeah.”

“I’ll find out, you know?”

“Are you home already?”

“No, I’m at the Salad Bar; just picking up a cress salad.”

I couldn’t think of anything more tasteless and unsatisfying than a cress salad, especially without any dressing, which I knew Monica’s would be. “Coolio.”

“Please come on Thursday, Lex. I really want you to come.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll be fun, you antisocial recluse. Just come and forget your troubles! Drink some punch, dance, and kiss a few guys.”

“Okay, now you’ve really turned me off this party.”

Monica laughed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Later.”

I grinned at myself in the rear view mirror. Was I really being miserable? I knew I wasn’t mixing much at school, but I had Monica so I didn’t need to.

“It’s just the thought of having to chat about mostly random and irrelevant things that bores me,” I said aloud. “That doesn’t mean I’m miserable.”

By the time I got home I was starting to feel a little worked up. Who was I kidding? All I ever did was sit in my room, moping, eating, and feeling sorry for myself. And, now, I was even talking to myself out loud like some kind of lunatic. I
was
miserable, antisocial, and reclusive.

I’d been homeschooled by my dad while we lived in England because of my modeling and all the associated traveling. Maybe I’d lost my social skills as a result.

I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat. So what! I didn’t have to party if I didn’t want to. That didn’t make me miserable. I just preferred to be by myself. Plus, the ‘politics’ at school were crazy, and I wasn’t getting involved in it. Okay, it was normal to have cliques and some sort of social hierarchy, but Kingston kids, especially the girls, were just ridiculous. It totally sucked!

I smiled at my American ‘slangage.’ The lingo was coming back pretty fast.

***

“What’s the deal, Lexi?” Monica asked, following me to my locker the next day. “Are you definitely coming to this party?”

“Huh?” It was nine thirty-five a.m., and I was late for class. I’d slept through my alarm, and had just about managed to have a quick shower and throw some clothes on. It was a good thing I lived close to school, or I would have been seriously late. I dialed the combination for my locker and tried to open it. It refused.

“Lexi, talk to me. I’m late for biology.”

I frowned. “What’s the number of my locker again?” I squinted at the metallic box in front of me. I was sure this was my locker. “One-two-two,” I muttered, dialing the combination again.

“You know what, Lexi? I should be in class, but I waited for you. And you stroll in half an hour late with your head up your backside. Move!” Monica shoved me aside and opened my locker for me. “Are you coming tomorrow or not?”

“To the after party?”

“Yes, Lexi.”

“Oh, right. What time?”

“Well, the game starts at six. Are you coming to watch that?”

“I can’t.” I looked into my locker. It was empty. I groaned and slammed it shut. I’d left my books at home. Argh!

“Okay, well, the party starts at seven,” Monica said.

My fashion show finished at eight thirty. “Yeah, I’ll come, but I’ll be late.”

“Cool, shall we go shopping after school?” Monica asked, hopefully.

“No, I think my wardrobe can handle a basketball after party. Am I supposed to go crazy and dress up?”

“Wear a dress, but don’t go crazy. I’m wearing this hot blue dress from Bebe.”

Just then, the basketball team returned from their morning training session.

“Hey, Craig,” Monica sang.

Craig Bentham squeezed Monica’s shoulder as he walked past. “Hey, Monica.” He looked at me and smirked.

I wanted to hide. I’d dated him when we first started high school. How embarrassing. He’d dumped me for Ashton Leyland, and Monica had told me they were still together.

Hayden Wright stopped to talk to Monica. “Are you coming tomorrow?” he asked her. He’d joined Kingston High the fall after I left, and although I’d only observed their banter for a few weeks, it was clear that Hayden could be trouble for Monica and Liam’s relationship. If I were her, I’d either just get with him or stay well away.

Monica gave him the most flirtatious smile I’d ever seen. “Sure, I’m a cheerleader now.”

It took everything within me not to snort. Monica used to be on the gymnastics team. She’d even won state tournaments. Now, she’d left all that for cheerleading! No doubt Michelle had been the architect of that decision.

Hayden hugged her, and another guy hugged her from behind. It was a Monica sandwich, and she was giggling and squirming, trying to free herself.

I dropped back. I always felt self-conscious around Monica when she went into flirt mode, but I had to admit that she was highly fascinating to watch.

“Hey, Jace,” Monica trilled, when she managed to release herself from between the two guys.

I looked back. Jace Washington was coming up the corridor, flanked by two buddies, his shirt thrown over his shoulder. One of his buddies was Kevin Wallace, who Sandy had been dating forever. The other was some new blond dude. Another curly-haired black guy was walking just behind them, texting on his phone. There was no denying that some hot guys had joined the school since I’d been away.

I wished I could just be invisible. Why did I have to see the whole basketball squad first thing in the morning on a day when I looked atrocious? The worst part of it was my hair was still damp and at this strange halfway point between curling and frizzing.

“We’ve got a cheer for you, Jace. We hear you’re hot.”

“Cool, Monica.” Jace walked off toward the boys’ bathroom.

Monica refocused her attention on Hayden. She seemed to have forgotten that I existed. “Eww, you’re all sweaty, Hayden.”

Hayden flexed an impressive bicep. “Yeah, Coach worked us hard.”

I looked at my watch. I needed to get to class. Had I really just told Monica that I was going to the after party tomorrow? The thought of it filled me with nervous dread. I’d probably be on my own all evening. Either that or I’d be Monica’s invisible sidekick, while she flirted the night away. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

Chapter 2

I started modeling when I was thirteen. One of my mom’s work colleagues had suggested that I do a modeling course to help me overcome my shyness. Apparently, her daughter had been quiet and shy when she was younger, and a modeling course had helped to draw her out.

I’d liked the idea, so I’d enrolled for a five-week course over summer vacation. But for me, it hadn’t been about overcoming my so-called shyness. It’d been the allure of glamor, fame, and wealth as my naïve imagination ran wild and conjured up visions of a stunning, dark-haired primadonna (
moi
) sauntering down a runway in a sparkly gold bikini, while the world salivated at her feet.

The course was both rigorous and fun. I was taught that I shouldn’t let my height make me feel awkward (I’ve been 5’8 since I was twelve!), and that I was exactly the kind of person that agencies wanted. Unfortunately, I was taught to walk by straight women, not by glamorous effeminate men like on
Top Model
.

When the course finished, I told my mom that I wanted to be a model, and I managed to secure a few bookings. We moved to England, and I caught the eye of an agent at an open call at
Transition
agency in Manchester, a city half an hour away from our home in the Wirral. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Whether modeling helped me with my shyness or whether I just grew out of it, I don’t know, but on the whole, I was still a quiet, reserved kind of person—not shy but just more of an introvert than an extrovert.

I pondered all this as I packed my things after Thursday night’s fashion show. It was hard to stand out among so many beautiful girls. How exactly was I going to stand out and become a supermodel? Especially with my chilled personality? A lot of the models I met were what I called champagne people: vivacious with effervescent personalities. How was I going to compete with that?

I glanced around the room as I shook my hair free from the numerous pins the hairstylist had used to sweep it up. The models were all chatting away to each other, and some were flirting with the male models.

I kicked off the oppressively tight shoes I was wearing. Each pair of shoes I’d been given tonight were at least two sizes too small. I’d sauntered down the runway in agony, with a deadpan expression hopefully masking my anguish. My feet were a sorry sight, and the thought of going to a party and having to dance was not very appealing right now.

Modeling looked so glam, but it wasn’t. Celebrity models had it good, but puny modellettes, like myself, were a dime a dozen. However, it did have its perks, like my seven closets full of hot clothes that I had acquired from generous designers all over Western Europe. I never went shopping, because I had more clothes than I knew what to do with. For tonight’s party at school, I’d brought with me a gray Weston dress that Ché Weston herself had let me have after a photoshoot in Paris last year summer. I pulled it out of my purse. It was slightly creased but still wearable.

A shirtless male model walked past and I averted my eyes before he thought I was checking him out. He disappeared behind a rack of clothes to change.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Many times, hair and makeup for fashion shows was too ‘knock your eyes out’ to wear anywhere else but on the runway. For tonight, though, Vinnie Hoffman had wanted a ‘less is more’ look, hoping to achieve an ‘ordinary people’ feel for his collection. So I didn’t need to wash it off and redo it.

I was still wearing the deep red silk dress that my dresser had thrust at me for my last change. It had more personality than the gray dress that I’d packed for the party. Yes, it was probably a little too much for school, but had I not lived in England for the past four years? Was it not expected of me to show up at the party and make a bit of a fashion statement?

I stuffed the gray dress back into my purse. I was going in red silk. Kingston High, watch out!

I packed up and went to say bye to Vinnie. He said he’d let me keep his dress if I would do some more shows for him. I gave him my agency’s details so that he could contact them.

***

I got to school just before nine and made my way to the gym. It was heaving. Luckily Monica was looking out for me. “Lexi,” she yelled over the music, eyeing my dress. “I thought you weren’t coming any more. It’s nine o’ clock! The party finishes in about half an hour.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because we’ve got school tomorrow. If it was a Friday, they’d let us stay till two in the morning. Whoever planned this party for a Thursday was crazy. Any party that’s out before midnight ain’t a party.”

“But you can’t have the after party the day after the game.”