“I’d need actual, real approval from Mum and Dad, not just you pretending over the phone.”
“True,” Ava agrees. “So, you’ve changed your mind? You want to go ahead with it?”
I nod. I’m so easy to persuade. I’d like to be more cool and decisive, but I’m more a “swim with the tide, see where it takes you” sort of person, and it’s taking me in an interesting direction. Or rather it would be, if Mum and Dad weren’t like a dam at the end, waiting to stop me.
“Don’t worry about them,” Ava says confidently. “I have it all worked out. Trust me.”
And yet again, despite everything, I do.
T he weak point in the dam, according to my sister, is Dad. On Saturday morning, as soon as Mum’s gone out to work, we set to work on him together. I go first.
“Er, Dad,” I say, wandering into the kitchen where he’s washing dishes. “I may need your help.”
He looks around and smiles. “What is it, love? If it’s math again, I don’t think there’s much I can do. Those statistics are way beyond me now.”
“It’s not math, it’s modeling.”
I explain about Cassandra’s call. He swears loudly, his fingers fumbling in his ridiculous yellow rubber gloves, and drops a plate. It breaks. We decide to continue the conversation at the dining table, out of range of fragile china. Ava joins us, looking pale and woozy this morning, but determined to back me all the way.
“But listen, my loves, are you sure they’re real?” Dad asks suspiciously.
Ava steps in. “Model City are the best, Dad. I know Ted’s not your … typical beauty queen, but she’s got what it takes for modeling. She’s just lucky that way.”
He smiles and takes my hand. “We could do with some luck in this family. But your mum would never let you, of course. You know what she thinks about models.”
“Yes,” I admit, “but she doesn’t actually know any. I met one last week, and she was lovely. She didn’t take a single drug the whole time we were there.”
He laughs.
“We were thinking … er, I was thinking … that I could try it out. Maybe do a few jobs — small ones. Earn some money. See for myself if it’s OK, then tell Mum.”
I see him falter for a moment, and look at him pleadingly. It was when I mentioned earning some money that he wobbled. Dad hates the fact that Ava and I don’t have an allowance anymore, and he still tries to slip me a five occasionally. Simply breathing in a city like London seems to cost money. My original plan was to apply for a waitressing job over the summer, but they’re hard to get around here because everyone wants one and even if you get one, you have to work a whole day to earn enough for one meal out with your friends. Dad knows this.
Ava gives him a winning smile. “It would keep Ted busy.”
He nods, still faltering.
“And it would be safe, I promise,” I tell him. “They sent me an e-mail about it this morning. I’ll show you. It says I have to have a chaperone at all times until I’m sixteen. Either you could do it, or they’ll provide one. And I’d always tell you exactly where I was going, and give you contact numbers and everything.”
He sighs and doodles absentmindedly in the margin of the newspaper.
“When I was your age, Ava,” he says, “I needed some vacation money. A friend’s dad had a farm. He offered me and some mates free board and lodging and a little money if we could help pick lettuce. We took a look around the farm: nice, rolling countryside, friendly farmer’s wife. The town was famous for its summer music festival. So we said yes.” He turns to us with haunted eyes. “And, girls, I have never worked so hard, for so little money, in my life. It’s backbreaking, pulling up lettuce, and it never ends. Hours and hours and hours of it. Those fields just went on and on …” He doodles some more and says grimly, “I hate lettuce. Don’t tell your mother, but I can’t abide the stuff … So, Ted, you’d just be wearing
“True,” Ava agrees. “So, you’ve changed your mind? You want to go ahead with it?”
I nod. I’m so easy to persuade. I’d like to be more cool and decisive, but I’m more a “swim with the tide, see where it takes you” sort of person, and it’s taking me in an interesting direction. Or rather it would be, if Mum and Dad weren’t like a dam at the end, waiting to stop me.
“Don’t worry about them,” Ava says confidently. “I have it all worked out. Trust me.”
And yet again, despite everything, I do.
T he weak point in the dam, according to my sister, is Dad. On Saturday morning, as soon as Mum’s gone out to work, we set to work on him together. I go first.
“Er, Dad,” I say, wandering into the kitchen where he’s washing dishes. “I may need your help.”
He looks around and smiles. “What is it, love? If it’s math again, I don’t think there’s much I can do. Those statistics are way beyond me now.”
“It’s not math, it’s modeling.”
I explain about Cassandra’s call. He swears loudly, his fingers fumbling in his ridiculous yellow rubber gloves, and drops a plate. It breaks. We decide to continue the conversation at the dining table, out of range of fragile china. Ava joins us, looking pale and woozy this morning, but determined to back me all the way.
“But listen, my loves, are you sure they’re real?” Dad asks suspiciously.
Ava steps in. “Model City are the best, Dad. I know Ted’s not your … typical beauty queen, but she’s got what it takes for modeling. She’s just lucky that way.”
He smiles and takes my hand. “We could do with some luck in this family. But your mum would never let you, of course. You know what she thinks about models.”
“Yes,” I admit, “but she doesn’t actually know any. I met one last week, and she was lovely. She didn’t take a single drug the whole time we were there.”
He laughs.
“We were thinking … er, I was thinking … that I could try it out. Maybe do a few jobs — small ones. Earn some money. See for myself if it’s OK, then tell Mum.”
I see him falter for a moment, and look at him pleadingly. It was when I mentioned earning some money that he wobbled. Dad hates the fact that Ava and I don’t have an allowance anymore, and he still tries to slip me a five occasionally. Simply breathing in a city like London seems to cost money. My original plan was to apply for a waitressing job over the summer, but they’re hard to get around here because everyone wants one and even if you get one, you have to work a whole day to earn enough for one meal out with your friends. Dad knows this.
Ava gives him a winning smile. “It would keep Ted busy.”
He nods, still faltering.
“And it would be safe, I promise,” I tell him. “They sent me an e-mail about it this morning. I’ll show you. It says I have to have a chaperone at all times until I’m sixteen. Either you could do it, or they’ll provide one. And I’d always tell you exactly where I was going, and give you contact numbers and everything.”
He sighs and doodles absentmindedly in the margin of the newspaper.
“When I was your age, Ava,” he says, “I needed some vacation money. A friend’s dad had a farm. He offered me and some mates free board and lodging and a little money if we could help pick lettuce. We took a look around the farm: nice, rolling countryside, friendly farmer’s wife. The town was famous for its summer music festival. So we said yes.” He turns to us with haunted eyes. “And, girls, I have never worked so hard, for so little money, in my life. It’s backbreaking, pulling up lettuce, and it never ends. Hours and hours and hours of it. Those fields just went on and on …” He doodles some more and says grimly, “I hate lettuce. Don’t tell your mother, but I can’t abide the stuff … So, Ted, you’d just be wearing
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