For Ivory.
/\
The girls are sixteen when Mamie Eleanor asks them to be the faces of her new spring line. Dorothy is so excited, she's practically jumping in place, clapping her hands and emitting a noise that could crack glass.
Blair stands with her arms crossed, head shaking with less than fond memories of the single time her mother thought nepotism would be mutually beneficial. Alice stands there taking in the scene, unsure how to feel about the offer, and adjusts her glasses unnecessarily because she doesn't know what to do with her hands.
Dorothy and Mamie converse back and forth in such an enthused tit for tat, it's hard to keep track of. Discussing just what sort of clothes they'll be wearing, what the shoots will involve, even though Alice nor Blair have agreed to anything.
The scowl on her mother's face is understandable. Alice knows, just as Dorothy does, that the one and only attempt at modeling their mother made ended up an unmitigated disaster. (Another embarrassing adolescent tale courtesy of Aunt Serena.)
It's obvious that it's not even a flicker of a thought in Dorothy's mind, but Alice can see the memory flashing before her mother's eyes.
"Mom?" She asks tentatively, reaching for hand that's balled into a fist.
Eyes shift into focus, a terse smile on her lips.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"You can't say no."
The smile drops instantly.
"Excuse me?"
"Look at her," Alice continues, nodding in her sister's direction. "She wants this. Badly. If you take it away, a piece of her will always hate you for it."
Blair blinks at the blunt honesty, the girl clearly her father's daughter.
"What about you?" She asks. "Is this something you want?"
Alice simply shrugs.
"Doesn't matter."
Blair puts a hand on her arm.
"Alice, honey. You don't have-"
"Yes I do," she insists. "And so do you, okay?"
A moment passed before Blair nods her agreement.
"Then it's settled."
Alice moves to stand next to Dorothy, who immediately loops their arms together, as their grandmother beams with pride.
Blair shakes her head and laughs softly.
Dan is going to love this.
/\
A tear slips down her cheek as she hisses against the sting. This being the seventh time, at least, she's been jabbed with the seamstress' needle. Never would she have thought standing still could be so difficult.
Dorothy had gone through her alterations in no time flat, never once getting poked with this sadist's instrument of torture, now sitting in a chair watching all this happen with a bemused expression.
When stuck an eighth time, she cries out, instinctively pulling away from the pain and ripping all the precariously places pins from the fabric.
The seamstress throws up her hands in exasperation, vocalizing her displeasure in a flurry of French. Though Alice is a bit out of practice, she can pick up a few things along the lines of foolish child, how am I ever going to finish, and can't work like this.
She sighs loudly and excuses herself, leaving Alice standing there with half a dress hanging off of her, and Dorothy bursts out laughing.
"The things I do for you," Alice mutters.
/\
They've been sitting in the man made pond for over an hour.
Which wasn't terrible the first twenty minutes or so, splashing each other, laughing and actually having fun. The photographer, however, must have lost his train of thought because ever since the first dozen photos were taken, he hasn't liked a thing single thing seen and refuses to let them get out of the water. Her feet are going numb.
Even Dorothy, who made Alice swear a pact about being the utmost professional, has her enthusiasm waning when her teeth start to chatter. Alice doesn't remotely understand the concept of the shoot. How is the sight of a sopping wet dress supposed to make someone want to buy it?
Yesterdays made a bit more sense, the two of them having tea in a well landscaped garden, where the biggest risk was thinking that her arm might fall off from holding up a cup for so long. Now hypothermia seems a real possibility.
Also, Dorothy can't seem to help digging her nails into Alice's arm every time one of the Koi fish brush her leg, which seems to happen with more frequency the longer they stay.
"I swear to god," Dorothy says through grit teeth. "I'll go all diva on him if he keeps this up any longer."
Alice laughs.
"Not as glamorous as you thought, is it?"
Dorothy has no reply to that, but gives her sister's arm another indentation when a fish looks like it's getting too close.
/\
Five minutes until they have to walk on the runway, and Alice is having a panic attack trying to hide behind a rack of dresses. It was a mistake, poking her head through the curtain, curious to see just how many people actually go to these things.
The answer, it turns out, is quite a lot.
It's as if she can feel them all out there, the eyes waiting to scrutinize and judge every inch of her, wanting to see if she falls flat on her face. (Which is a distinct probability in the shoes they put her in.)
It doesn't help that practically the whole family is out there too. Mom and Dad. Mamie and Cyrus. Grandpa Rufus and Lily. Aunt Serena and Jenny. Uncle Eric and Nate.
She starts nibbling on her knuckles, because Dorothy had already smacked the hand straight out of her mouth earlier, for chewing her nails and ruining the first coat of nail polish applied.
The hair stands on the back of her neck as her heartbeat doubles. Why did she agree to do this? It's one thing to have only a handful of people standing around gawking while you have your picture taken. But this, all those people. She doesn't even like presenting reports in class, and suddenly she's supposed to strut her stuff in front of a thousand strangers?
Dorothy finds her shaking and hugging herself, still hiding away behind the dress rack.
"Oh god," she says, emphasizing the vowels. "What's wrong with you?"
Alice stares down at her toes, all sparkly perfect and poking out of ridiculous heels.
"I, uh," Alice stutters. "I mean, I-"
"Don't freak out on me now," Dorothy interrupts, taking her sister's arm in a firm grip. "Look at me."
Alice keeps her head down.
"Ally, look at me."
Dorothy's fingers move to cup her chin, tilting it up so their eyes meet.
"It's just you and me out there, okay? It's always going to be you and me."
She lets go of Alice's face, her arm, but takes point and twines their fingers together.
"Come on," Dorothy says with confidence. "We got this."
The light is unnecessarily bright when they step onto the runway, camera flashes adding extra stars in her eyes, and reminds her why she hates wearing contacts.
With every step her confidence begins to build, trying not to smile when she sees her parents in the front row, or frown at how they disappear when another shot is taken.
Alice does not blink, only breathes, and is sure to keep her head held high never once letting go of Dorothy's hand.