The Home for Wayward Supermodels by Pamela Redmond Satran

Tom’s best old chamois shirt, the one he gave me to sleep in. I stepped out from behind the screen and the triumvirate surveyed me from the neck down.
    “The thighs could be a problem,” said the third woman, the non-British, non-chihuahua one, who was a bit pear-shaped herself.
    “What do you mean— jiggly? ” British accent said.
    “No, not fat. Too thin.”
    “There’s no such thing as thighs that are too thin,” the leader cut in. “Besides, she’s got very long calves. That’s the key to everything.”
    Long calves were the key to everything? To love, happiness, and great personal wealth? I snorted.
    All three of them went silent, staring in my direction as if I’d belched. Finally, the leader extended a silver sequined sheath to me. “Put this on,” she said. I guess the Silent Rule included snorting.
    I slipped the dress over my head and stepped out from behind the screen.
    “This one is fabulous on her,” said the leader woman, walking over to me and tugging at the dress’s waist.
    “Very Edie, very Andy,” said Pear Shape. “Very Liza and Halston at Studio 54.”
    “She has fabulous tits,” said the leader, though she apparently thought I didn’t have ears.
    Pear Shape nodded as I began to shiver. “We could put her in that black strapless,” she said.
    “We could do it like Stella,” British said, “with long feather earrings and bare feet.”
    “Or like Marc,” the leader said, “with those high black shoes and one of those caps.”
    “Or like my friend Desi!” I said excitedly, imagining how much Desi would love this dress, this whole place. “She’d probably go totally silver, with big mirrored earrings and shiny high-heeled sandals and something like those skinny silver Indian bangles all the way up both arms.”
    Finally they all looked at my face. The British woman and Pear Shape both opened their mouths, just a little, but enough to let me know they’d never heard anyone say this particular thing before and had no idea how to respond.
    Leader Woman, on the other hand, pressed her lips tightly together. She looked like a narrow pipe that was building steam.
    “No!” she finally exploded.
    Everyone stood there, stunned for a moment.
    “You’re not here to offer your opinion, is that understood?” she said.
    I hung my head. “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Don’t call me ma’am—it makes me feel a hundred and twelve,” she snapped. “Didn’t Raquel go over the rules with you?”
    Afraid to say anything at all, I mutely nodded.
    They turned away from me then and began talking about locations, props, schedules. I slipped behind the screen and lifted the sequined dress over my head. I looked around for someplace to hang it, and finally let it drop onto the floor. When I had dressed and stepped back into the room, they were still talking, pulling jewelry from the accessory wall, beginning to lay out outfits on the floor the way I did when I was going out.
    The only difference was that the outfits I laid out at home usually consisted of something like a huge shirt of Duke’s over patent leather hot pants from the thrift store over my old dance class leggings, with red sneakers and a necklace Tom had made me from pinecones, and the outfits they were laying out at Vogue were designed by Chanel and Marni with jewelry from Cartier and shoes from Louboutin. It was all I could do not to drool.
    I put my hand on the doorknob, figuring this was my chance to make a silent getaway, when the Leader called out to me.
    “You,” she said. “Where do you think you’re going?”
    “Uh,” I said, nervous about speaking but feeling as if I had no choice. “Out?”
    “Not so fast,” she said. “We’re going to need you at nine o’clock tomorrow morning for the shoot. I’ll phone Raquel with the details.”
    Now I really was speechless. If I’d understood her correctly, I was about to be in Vogue magazine.
    Somehow I managed to keep my cool going down in the elevator and walking