food? We’re going to be late.”
I eye the bag of Lucky Charms, but Breffni warns me off with a look. I reach instead for the bag of desiccated generic flakes of corn on the top shelf, pour them into the only bowl left, a tea cup, then jump back in horror.
“Don’t worry,” Crispen says. “The black ones are lucky.”
I dump the bowl into the sink and settle for some leftover bee spittle on toast.
“You look like you could use a caffeine suppository,” Crispen says. “You’d best perk up. This is the big day. Your first cattle call. Your first taste of who’s hot and who’s snot. And you’ll get to meet Chelsea Manson.”
“Don’t trust Manson,” Breffni warns. “He’ll steal the eye out of your head. But he’s a good agent. At least the clients seem to like him. And that’s really all that matters. As long as he gets the bookings. But he’s gotta like you, or you’re done.”
It’s only 8:30, and already I’m stressed. I pop some vitamin C for courage and some iron for good luck. “By the way, I took a message for Simien from Feyenoord while you guys were sleeping.” I wave the pink piece of paper. “What do I do with it?”
Augustus smiles. “What do we do with messages for Simien, C.J.?”
“We put it in his in-box.” Crispen takes the slip of paper, holds it aloft for a second, then lets it waft slowly into the bin by his side.
I frown. “That’s the garbage can.”
Crispen nods. “Indeed.”
“Well, if he asks, what do I tell him?”
“Don’t worry about him. Just concentrate on your audition. Are you going to wear that?”
“You don’t like it?” I glance at my lucky sweater. It got me hired at Moore’s and laid in Syracuse.
“You need something tighter, so they can see your body,” Crispen says. “This isn’t a flippin’ Christmas pageant. They’d have us parading around naked if it were legal.”
I check out what they’re wearing. Breffni’s baby blue T-shirt is almost transparent; Crispen’s yellow one clings like a wetsuit.
“Remind me to take you shopping,” Crispen says. “You can wear one of mine for now. Just try not to sweat, okay?”
I admire myself in the windowpane outside the agency. In this V-neck shirt even I have muscles. The only flaws are my chest hairs sprouting above the low-cut shirt like weeds.
“And there’s the lovely and talented Crispen Jonson. You’ll do our show, n’est-ce pas?”
The speaker and another man are coming out the door as we mount the steps. The one with the scarf grabs Crispen by the collar and teases him about the time he went on without his shoes. The other one, the guy wearing what appears to be a uniform from a Chinese prison, stares at me but says nothing. Breffni trails sullenly behind us, still annoyed at being woken up just for this.
“It’s a zoo in there,” the one with the scarf says, turning to the rest of us. “Chelsea didn’t tell us he was holding a cattle call at the ranch, or we wouldn’t have come. He didn’t even offer us treats. Anyhow, have to go. See you.” He points at Crispen. “Next week.” And they’re off down the stairs.
“Who are they?” I ask.
“The Zaks brothers,” Crispen says. “Tom’s a designer. His brother—I forget his name—is a stylist. They’re good, and they put on great shows. I’d be surprised if they don’t book you, the way Tom’s brother was checking you out. They like to add a dash of pepper to their shows.”
Breffni catches up to us. “They’re not that good, their shows are weird, and they pay lousy.”
“But they always hire the nicest-looking women,” Crispen says. “And there’s free booze.”
The hall inside is wall-to-wall models. One of them bumps into Crispen and gives him a punch of recognition. “Are you doing the Felicity show this year?”
“Every year,” Crispen tells him.
“Maybe this time we’ll, like, actually be wearing clothes,” the newcomer says, laughing. “See you there.” He disappears into the crowd.
“You do a lot of shows,” I say.
Crispen shrugs. “They like my walk. I don’t know why. I never learned how to do it or anything. They just seem to like it.”
“He usually walks with a toothpick in his mouth,” Breffni says.
“With a toothpick?”
“It was one of my first shoots,” Crispen says. “I was nervous and forgot to take it out. And they loved it. So I do it sometimes, so people know it’s me. Kind of like a trademark.”
“What else do you do?” I ask, hoping to glean some last-minute tips before it’s my turn.
“I can’t...there’s no room in here. We have to check in first, anyway, tell them we’re here. It’s first come, first served unless you have a shoot today.”
“Last time Eva was here I grew a beard waiting in line,” Breffni says.
Thin flamingoes and burly Bobs are lined up in all directions. I grimace. “All these people are ahead of us? It’s not even quarter past nine yet. Why can’t we tell them we have to be somewhere?”
“There’s no such thing as having to be somewhere unless you have a shoot,” Breffni says. “And they’d know if you have a shoot. They book your shoots. Trust me. I’ve been through it a billion times. All you can do is wait your turn.”
Rianne is at the foot of the stairs, clipboard in hand. She’s not at her best. She looks about as good as she did at last call the previous night. We make our way over, and Rianne adds our names to the list. She doesn’t look me in the eye.
“I’ll tell you when to go in.” She points to a set of large silver double doors. “In there. When I call you. Crispy, Breff, you know the drill.”
We shuffle off, and I grin. “Crispy?”
“If you ever call me that, I’ll rearrange your face like you were Mr. Potato Head. I take it from her ’cause I’m paid to.”
Crispen herds us toward the wall near the doors where all the other models are loosely lined up. It’s as if the cops put out an APB on anyone under twenty-five and over five foot eight. A summons served to all ablebodied models. An old-fashioned cattle call. And the cattle bear the same brand—we’re all Feyenoord models. There are so many of us that I can’t believe there’s enough work to feed everyone, let alone the other models from the other agencies in the city. I pray for a model-borne plague and carnivorous runways. A model-eating lizard.
“Breff...”
Breffni turns. Rianne is on the stairs. She touches the corners of her lips and pulls them up in a smile. If she were any greener, she’d look like the Joker.
“Why am I even here?” Breffni mutters.
“Why are you here?”
“He’s here,” Crispen says, “because if he doesn’t come, he knows they’ll never put him up for any auditions he actually wants. Business is business, but they’re petty like that. It looks bad for them if their best models are all no-shows. That’s why I go through this crap every year.”
“How come Augustus got out of it?”
“Biggs? He’d be here if he thought he had a chance. But every year, when the Europeans make their rounds, they always tell him the same thing. He’s too big to fit the clothes. I keep telling him to bulk down, but he just