CHAPTER THREE: Amber- Falling To Pieces
Considering that wheatie in Rose's bowl- and, okay, the Skylar incident- I was left without an appetite. I guessed that was a blessing, I'd been gaining weight for the first time since I was fourteen. Isn't it weird I only noticed this morning? But I hadn't thought about my looks in eight months. Number nine hundred and ninety-nine on my list of things to worry about.
I went back to my room- Ebony and Rose stayed to finish eating- and the first thing I did was sit down and pull out my scrapbook.
Mama had kept a scrapbook of every ad and layout I was in, marking the article and date. It wasn't out of conceit- she was just proud of me. Fat chance now, Mama, fat chance.
The first clipping was from a ym issue when I was fifteen. My hair was roped into tendrils, I had a gorgeous dark red lipstain, and I wore a shiny blue bikini with matching sandals and a sportjacket. Every model had a sportjacket with their swimsuits after that, I remembered. The painful thing about that clipping was that Daddy had written one of his usual witty comments underneath; "Venus at play," this one said.
Daddy, without a doubt, was the smartest, kindest, and handsomest man I had ever known. Curse the fates that had made him go away so soon. Why couldn't it have been Tony instead?
I shook my head. A few pages on, however, had a clipping of Tony and I at the VH1 Fashion Awards. The printed caption was "Rising model Kirsten Chambers and date Tony Cheplin were the first in line." The clipping next to it was I giggling and accepting my Best Newcomer award from Donatella Versace. "'I gotta owe it all to that little black sportcoat,' Chambers joked in her acceptance speech" was typewritten underneath. And underneath both of them was the dried, pressed tulip Tony had given me after the show- my first flower from him. Times were happier then.
After the breakup, my first impulse was to rip that flower out and toss it in the compost heap. But I never did. Maybe I just wanted a reminder of those happier times.
I kept flipping through the book. Posing for jewelry in Seventeen, a prom dress special, lipstick ads, more swimsuits, meeting Jennifer Lopez and Tyra Banks at a runway, many pictures to document my two and half years of being regarded as one of the most beautiful girls in the world. What did I have to show for it now?
The last picture was of me giving the eulogy at Daddy's funeral. The pages following that clipping were blank.
Blank pages, what a metaphor for the rest of my life, with my luck. Nothing but a blank future lay ahead for me, I would never be accepted into society again. I'd had my fifteen minutes of fame, now it was time for me to fade into the background. I closed the scrapbook and quietly put it away, a closed chapter in my life.
I lay back down in bed, only wanting to sleep now. Maybe if I were lucky, I wouldn't dream.
Last night I did dream, and while I didn't wake up screaming like I used to- why risk the doctors coming in here? - it was the same horrible dream that had been torturing me for the past eight months.
Daddy had been driving the van, and I'd been in the passenger seat next to him- in the dream, not in real life- and I had my seatbelt on, but I was transparent like a ghost, not being able to be seen, a silent witness to my father's last moments.
Then that hated Puget Sound comes barreling down the highway from the wrong direction, driven by someone who would later on get a suspended license for five years, eight years in jail, and a broken arm.
Daddy sees the truck and immediately tries to swerve out of the way, a bad decision considering the driver was swerving too. I leap out of my seat to grab the steering wheel to pull Daddy over to the side, so he'd be okay- but it's no use. My hands go right through the wheel, just like a ghost.
Daddy and the truck driver take notice of one another, but it's too late. They crash head on, and I'm only left screaming in my seat.
After that I've always woken up, the tears drying on my face, and left to deal with the memory.
Not any of the other girls had to deal with what I did. None of them.
(To be continued...)
Considering that wheatie in Rose's bowl- and, okay, the Skylar incident- I was left without an appetite. I guessed that was a blessing, I'd been gaining weight for the first time since I was fourteen. Isn't it weird I only noticed this morning? But I hadn't thought about my looks in eight months. Number nine hundred and ninety-nine on my list of things to worry about.
I went back to my room- Ebony and Rose stayed to finish eating- and the first thing I did was sit down and pull out my scrapbook.
Mama had kept a scrapbook of every ad and layout I was in, marking the article and date. It wasn't out of conceit- she was just proud of me. Fat chance now, Mama, fat chance.
The first clipping was from a ym issue when I was fifteen. My hair was roped into tendrils, I had a gorgeous dark red lipstain, and I wore a shiny blue bikini with matching sandals and a sportjacket. Every model had a sportjacket with their swimsuits after that, I remembered. The painful thing about that clipping was that Daddy had written one of his usual witty comments underneath; "Venus at play," this one said.
Daddy, without a doubt, was the smartest, kindest, and handsomest man I had ever known. Curse the fates that had made him go away so soon. Why couldn't it have been Tony instead?
I shook my head. A few pages on, however, had a clipping of Tony and I at the VH1 Fashion Awards. The printed caption was "Rising model Kirsten Chambers and date Tony Cheplin were the first in line." The clipping next to it was I giggling and accepting my Best Newcomer award from Donatella Versace. "'I gotta owe it all to that little black sportcoat,' Chambers joked in her acceptance speech" was typewritten underneath. And underneath both of them was the dried, pressed tulip Tony had given me after the show- my first flower from him. Times were happier then.
After the breakup, my first impulse was to rip that flower out and toss it in the compost heap. But I never did. Maybe I just wanted a reminder of those happier times.
I kept flipping through the book. Posing for jewelry in Seventeen, a prom dress special, lipstick ads, more swimsuits, meeting Jennifer Lopez and Tyra Banks at a runway, many pictures to document my two and half years of being regarded as one of the most beautiful girls in the world. What did I have to show for it now?
The last picture was of me giving the eulogy at Daddy's funeral. The pages following that clipping were blank.
Blank pages, what a metaphor for the rest of my life, with my luck. Nothing but a blank future lay ahead for me, I would never be accepted into society again. I'd had my fifteen minutes of fame, now it was time for me to fade into the background. I closed the scrapbook and quietly put it away, a closed chapter in my life.
I lay back down in bed, only wanting to sleep now. Maybe if I were lucky, I wouldn't dream.
Last night I did dream, and while I didn't wake up screaming like I used to- why risk the doctors coming in here? - it was the same horrible dream that had been torturing me for the past eight months.
Daddy had been driving the van, and I'd been in the passenger seat next to him- in the dream, not in real life- and I had my seatbelt on, but I was transparent like a ghost, not being able to be seen, a silent witness to my father's last moments.
Then that hated Puget Sound comes barreling down the highway from the wrong direction, driven by someone who would later on get a suspended license for five years, eight years in jail, and a broken arm.
Daddy sees the truck and immediately tries to swerve out of the way, a bad decision considering the driver was swerving too. I leap out of my seat to grab the steering wheel to pull Daddy over to the side, so he'd be okay- but it's no use. My hands go right through the wheel, just like a ghost.
Daddy and the truck driver take notice of one another, but it's too late. They crash head on, and I'm only left screaming in my seat.
After that I've always woken up, the tears drying on my face, and left to deal with the memory.
Not any of the other girls had to deal with what I did. None of them.
(To be continued...)