Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies by Erin Dionne Page A

settled on the black pants and an orange wrap-style top with a black tank thing underneath. Well, Mom settled. Even though I told her I felt like a pumpkin, she insisted it looked the best on me. I was too tired to argue. Even Theo was worn out, drooping over his guitar and wearing a tired smile.
    I spent the rest of the evening in a mental tug-of-war: worry a little about Sandra, a little about the HuskyPeach. Exhausted and stressed out, I barely picked at dinner after not eating any lunch.
    Well, I thought, at least I don’t have to worry about writing anything in the food log tonight.
     
    The next morning, Saturday, I took so long getting ready that Mom ended up sitting in the car and honking the horn to get me out of the house. Dad and Ben stood at the foot of the stairs, cheering and hooting as I came out of my room.
    “There’s our beauty queen!” Dad called.
    “Whooo!” shouted Ben, clapping. He jumped and gave me a high five as I passed by, then banged his elbow on the banister.
    After we got the ice pack, they cheered the whole way to the car. In spite of my nerves, I smiled.
    “Just be yourself,” Dad yelled as we pulled away. “They’ll love you!”
    That’s what I’m afraid of, I thought. But it gave me an idea.
     
    There was a big sign welcoming the First Annual Northern California Regional PeachWear Modeling Challenge Contestants hung above the company’s main door.
    Please don’t let anyone I know see me going in, I thought.
    “Here we go,” Mom said, parking the car in the lot across the street. My stomach dropped to my knees. When she said, “Just do your best, sweetheart. That’s all we expect,” I felt even worse.
    Inside, skinny women wearing tiny black dresses and gold name tags shuttled us up to the fourth-floor office suite where the interview and photo shoot would take place. There were about a dozen other moms and girls crammed into a conference room. A table, pushed against the far wall, held two platters of cookies and brownies, plus bowls of chips and salsa. Most of the moms were busy primping their daughters: spritzing, patting, blotting, straightening, smoothing, and buzzing last-minute instructions in their ears.
    The girls eyed one another like cats do before they fight, and chewed their snacks. Some were larger than me, but all of us had the same basic shape: round, round, round. A surprise: They were pretty. All of them. Not drop-dead gorgeous, mind you, but they all had nice features, in spite of their roundness. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen this many pretty girls together in one place in my life. Why was I here? One girl wore the purple shirt I tried on the day before. She didn’t know what to do with the sleeves either. I smiled at her, but her mother scooted her away.
    I wonder how many of them have best friends “outside of school”?
    Mom and I stepped away from the door as it opened. A thin red-haired woman came in alone. She wore a charcoal-colored business suit and the largest diamond ring that I’d ever seen. Its sparkle would blind Lively and her groupies for sure. Or show Sandra how fake those girls are, I thought.
    “Welcome to PeachWear, and thank you for coming,” she said. The buzz stopped. “I’m Patricia Markowitz, vice president of marketing for PeachWear. We’re so glad you joined us today.” A murmur slid around the room.
    “You are a very special group. Our judges hand-selected you to be here because they feel that you have the qualities that PeachWear represents. Out of two hundred and fifty applicants, you twelve were selected to represent us.” She paused to let the number sink in. In spite of what I was there for, I was impressed. I’d never been picked for anything, and they’d received a lot of applications. Mom must’ve thought so too, because she squeezed my shoulder and gave me a smile.
    “This is our first year conducting the challenge, and we wanted to make sure the contestants were the very best of the bunch. We’re