Fire

There was no fire the night Gloria Albright’s house burned down. At least, no fire in the usual sense: no candles flickering too close to billowing drapery, no sizzling pan of oil left unattended on the stove, no faulty wiring sparking and smoldering behind the cover of sheetrock, no cigarette dangling from a careless hand. There was no hint at all that Gloria’s life was about to change so dramatically.

On that fateful Tuesday night ―a Tuesday night like any other― heavy clouds rolled over Mt. Equinox from the west. They rumbled and crashed into each other with enormous booms of thunder, settling over the small town of Manchester. Residents grabbed umbrellas and raced for cover. But before a single drop of rain had fallen a bolt of lightening shot from the sky. Careening downward with what appeared to be single-minded purpose it pierced Gloria’s roof. Shingles blasted in all directions. Sparks ricocheted higher than the thirty-year-old cedar that graced Gloria’s front yard.

Neighbors who lived nearby claimed the house was engulfed in flame within seconds. By the time the fire department arrived the roof and floor joists had already collapsed. When Gloria returned from Price Chopper (with her beloved Bassett hound, Chester, tucked safely in the back of her Subaru wagon), there was nothing left of her home of thirty-odd years but a pile of smoldering embers. Gloria stepped out of her car and stared. Then, when it was too late to do any good at all, the sky opened up. Rain began to pour down in sheets, drenching her.

Gloria ―who believed nothing in life happened haphazardly― was convinced the fire was a sign. The universe had spoken. It was time for her to realize her lifelong dream. She cashed the insurance check. She went shopping for real estate. She bought tables and chairs and hired cooks. She painted walls and tested recipes. Three months later she placed a help-wanted ad in the local paper.

She had everything she needed except waitresses.

The universe supplied four.

Tess

As a rule, it’s hard to make desperation look attractive. Unless one finds oneself in the kind of situation depicted in your standard Hollywood action movie, where a desperate act (like flinging yourself out of a soaring plane or down a flaming elevator shaft) might just save your life ―as well as the life of your totally hot costar― it’s generally best avoided.

Unfortunately, desperation is patient. It can smell fear and uncertainty. It loves vulnerability. It can worm its way into a girl’s psyche bit by bit until it’s driven out the calm, cool, collected reputation a girl has spent her entire high school career building. In fact, if a girl didn’t totally watch her ass, she could end up making the kind of rash, stupid, panicky decisions that people driven by desperation tend to make.

Tess Larsson had no intention of making rash, stupid, panicky decisions. But neither could she pretend any longer that desperation wasn’t dogging her. Lately it seemed to sneak up and hit her out of the blue, with almost no warning whatsoever. The trigger today had been the center ad in the September issue of Vogue magazine, a two-page spread for Tommy Hilfiger jeans.

A young couple stood in the center a very messy, very girly bedroom. They were both naked from the waist up, bodies locked in a sweaty embrace, jeans artfully unbuttoned and loose about their hips. They wore twin expressions of alarm, as though the viewer had just stumbled upon their secret tryst. Ignoring the voyeuristic aspects of the ad, or the larger question of why the image of a half-naked young girl getting caught in her bedroom with an equally half-naked guy would compel anyone to rush out and buy a pair of Tommy Hilfiger jeans, Tess turned her attention to the models.

The male model ―aka Mr. Perfect― had olive skin, chestnut brown hair with artfully placed gold streaks that screamed insanely expensive Manhattan salon, and a bod so tight and toned it looked like he’d stolen it from a statue of a Roman god. He’d been around awhile. She’d seen him lathered up in ads for Gillette razors, pared down to tighty-whiteys for Jockey briefs, strutting out of corporate boardrooms in Armani suits, and once, just recently, the loving husband in a TV commercial who surprised his wife with a gift-wrapped box of odor-free kitty litter. (Was that really all she’d hoped to get for her birthday?)

Either way, he was unbelievably gorgeous, but he was old news. It was the girl who caught Tess’s attention and set off her current pangs of impending doom.

Don't Laugh

She was definitely a new face, Tess thought, eyeing her critically. Her body was thin and long-limbed, her hair cascaded in thick, dark waves down her back, her breasts (from what she could tell, given the way they were squished against Mr. Perfect’s chest), were toned and pert. So no flaws there. But her face was far from ideal. Her eyes were a little too large, her mouth too wide, her nose too prominent, her cheekbones too pronounced. Still, there was no denying that the girl, whoever she was, perfectly captured the current rage in female models.

“You’re way prettier than her.”

Tess spared Julie Churchill, her best friend, a glance, then returned her attention to the magazine. “Maybe,” she allowed. “but she’s got that look, you know?”

“It doesn’t matter. It won’t last. She’s too masculine or something. You ready?”

“How old do you think she is?”

Julie peered at the ad. “Um… I don’t know. Seventeen. Maybe eighteen.”

“She looks younger than that to me. Don’t you think?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Look. So what if she is fourteen? What could that possibly—”

“So you do think she’s fourteen.”

“Oh, my God.”

Most top models entered the industry at the age of ten or twelve. Some as early as two. Certainly no later than fourteen. At seventeen, Tess was already years beyond her prime. Biting back another tirade over her parents’ unfairness for insisting she graduate high school before attempting to launch a modeling career, she gave the Vogue a frustrated shake. “I mean, just look at her. She’s in middle school and she’s already in Vogue, for God’s sake—”

Julie snatched the magazine from her lap and tossed it aside. “I know, I get it. She’s a baby and you’re ancient. Your parents just don’t understand how the industry works. Blah, blah, blah. There’s nothing you can do about it now, right? So quit worrying, stand up, and let’s get moving. Let’s at least try, all right?”

Tess ground her teeth in irritation, biting back a stinging reply. There was the real world, and then there was Julie’s world, where things just magically happened because you crossed your fingers, checked your horoscope, and hoped really hard. And even though she was one-hundred-percent convinced Julie’s plan wasn’t going to work, she had to at least try. She stood and stationed herself against the wall between the window and the bed. “How’s this?”

“Good.” Julie clicked the shutter and waited. “Well? Do something!”

A nervous bubble of laughter escaped Tess’s lips. “This is stupid. What am I supposed to do?”

“How would I know? You’re the expert. Do whatever models do. Toss your hair around or something. Purse your lips so you look annoyed and glamorous at the same time. Oh, wait— that reminds me...” She punched a button on her CD player. A rough cut, garage band version of Do You Think I’m Sexy? filled the room.

“Oh, my God. This is so embarrassing.”

Julie lowered her camera with an annoyed sigh. “Okay. Let’s just pretend for a minute that every guy you’ve ever met doesn’t stop and stare at you when you walk into a room. That waiters and waitresses, grocery store clerks, even total strangers in the street, don’t stumble over their words when they try to talk to you. That you haven’t known since sixth grade that you were destined ditch your unbelievably fabulous best friend —moi— and become a totally rich, stuck up supermodel who only hangs out with rock stars and Hollywood celebrities.” She smiled. “Now. Will you please quit freaking out and get your gorgeous butt moving?”

“Fine. Just don’t laugh.”

The Wade Mackie Agency

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and slowly let it out. She might look like a complete idiot, but at least she was doing something to get a career going. Besides, even if this didn’t work ―it wouldn’t― at least it was good practice for when she got in front of a real photographer. She swayed left, then right, loosening up enough to shift from straight-on smiles to head-tilted-serious-looks to over-the-shoulder glam as Julie clicked away, attempting to capture it all.

After about twenty minutes, she slumped down on the bed. “That’s enough. I quit. Oh, wait— one more.” She pulled Julie down beside her, grabbed the camera and held it in arm’s length in front of them, tilting her head until their temples touched. “Cheese!” She pressed the button and the shutter clicked. “There. At least we’ll have one that’s worth keeping.”

“They’re all going to be perfect,” Julie predicted brightly. “You’ll see.” She crossed to her computer, plugged in the memory card and pulled up the images, running through them one at a time.

Amateur. There was no other word for it. The lighting was way off: too bright on her right side and shadowed on her left. Plus, her makeup wasn’t as well blended as they’d thought. Her blush was all streaky and her mascara looked like spiky black globs. Then there was the background. The window with the blue-and-yellow daisy curtains Julie had had since first grade, her corny poster of the couple sucking face in front of the Eiffel Tower, the shelf crammed with hockey trophies. Somehow all that junk set a racy mood in the Hilfiger ad; in these shots it just looked sloppy. Exactly as Tess had predicted.

“Some of these aren’t too bad,” Julie finally managed. “I can photoshop the background a bit and—”

“Hmmm.”

“You hate them.”

“No! Jules, I didn’t say that. They’re good. They’re really good. It’s just… if I want a New York agency to sign me, I’ve got to send in something more professional.”

“Fine. We’ll do it over tomorrow. These were just practice shots, anyway.”

“We could, but… let me show you something.” Now it was her turn. With a surge of excitement, Tess slid the keyboard toward her and punched up a photographer’s website. Wade Mackie Images. “This guy’s in Albany, only an hour away.” The screen filled with glamorous images of male and female models. Slick and professional. No comparison to the cheesy, awkward shots Julie had just taken. “I already checked him out. He works with all the best agencies in the city, and he only charges three hundred an hour—”

“Three hundred—”

“Plus you have to pay for each photograph separately. His website says to
expect a fee of about fifteen hundred for an initial sitting. But that covers everything,” she rushed on, “hair, makeup, wardrobe, everything.”

“Fifteen hundred? Are you serious? There’s no way your parents are going to pay for that.”

“Obviously. But if I pay for it, they’ll see how serious I am about the whole thing. I mean, they’re not going to stop me if I pay for everything myself, right?”

“Well, maybe. But how are you—”

“Simple. We’ll both get jobs.”

Local Girls Preferred

Julie’s expression shifted, tightened. Tess knew without asking she was remembering last summer and the first real job they’d ever had outside of babysitting: selling handbags at the Kate Spade outlet in town. They’d been fired within a month for showing up late, goofing off in the stockroom, and generally acting like a couple of immature pain-in-the-asses. Although they’d laughed it off at the time, spending the rest of the summer taking turns firing each other any time one of them screwed something up, Tess knew Julie had been as embarrassed about it as she was.

“I don’t know…” Julie began.

“Jules, listen. I’m not talking about some stupid outlet job this time. I found something that’ll be great. We can make money and still have fun.” Tess retrieved the local paper from her backpack, opened it to the want ads and read aloud: “Grand Opening: Mo’s Diner. Waitresses wanted for breakfast and lunch shifts. Good pay and great tips. Apply in person. Local girls preferred.” She gave a light laugh. “How perfect is that? We’re girls, and you can’t get more local than us.”

“But waitress? I’ve never—”

“It doesn’t say you need experience. How hard can it be? You take an order, bring it to the table, walk away. Plus, look: breakfast and lunch. That means we’ll still be able to hang out with Spence and Colby at night.”

Another mistake-- mentioning Colby. Julie shook her head. “You hate getting up early. And summer just started. I thought we’d chill out and have fun, work on our tans, whatever. At least for a little while.”

Tess swallowed hard. Julie’s resistance, mild as it was, sent a fresh wave of panic washing over her. It wasn’t as bad as the time when she was twelve and she’d jumped off her dad’s boat at Lake St. Catherine, only to have the current catch her and pin her beneath the hull, holding her there until her brother dove under and pulled her free. But the sensation of being trapped, the soul-sucking urgency of needing to act now, before it was too late, was almost the same.

“Jules,” she said, “I can’t wait around anymore. It’s never gonna happen if I don’t do something. I have to start working now or I’m going to miss my chance forever. You know how important this is to me.”

“But why do you need me―”

“Because if you’re involved, my parents won’t ask any questions. They’ll think it’s a great idea. But if it’s just me, they’ll assume this is just another stupid plan.”

Julie

True, Julie thought. Tess’s parents were like that. Mostly because Tess was the queen of impulsive, forge ahead and ignore the consequences schemes. But trying to stop Tess once she had her mind set on something was like trying to take a sip of water from a fire hose. Still, Julie hesitated, looking for middle ground, for a way out that fell somewhere between of-course-I’ll help-you and no-way-do-I-want-to-be-stuck-in-a-greasy-diner-all-summer.

But she hesitated too long. Choosing to interpret her silence as assent, Tess clapped her hands in excitement, beaming. “It’ll be sooo much fun working together! You’ll see. It’s going to totally work out. I already called and spoke to the owner. She sounds really nice. She’s accepting applications tomorrow morning at 10:00. My mom said I can borrow her car, so I’ll pick you up at nine-thirty. She thinks my applying for this job means I’ve lost interest in ‘that modeling thing’, as she calls it, which just shows how clueless she is…”

Julie nodded absently, only half-listening as Tess gathered up the things she’d brought for their ‘photo shoot’. She shoved her cell, clothes, and makeup into her backpack, hesitating only when her hand skimmed past Julie’s camera.

“Do you think you can take that back now and ask your parents to get you that iPod you really wanted for your birthday?”

Right, Julie thought. Now that she’d pried the camera out of its bullet-proof plastic packaging and used it, along with the software, and her mom had no doubt tossed away the receipt, she was sure the store would be delighted to take it back. She shook her head. “No. That’s okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. It’s actually pretty cool.”

Tess wrapped her in a tight hug. “I knew you wouldn’t mind. You’re such
a good friend.” She practically skipped out of the room, calling behind her, “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning— don’t be late! Isn’t this so exciting?!”

That's What Best Friends Are For

Julie didn’t answer; she didn’t need to. The sound of the screen door slamming downstairs told her that Tess had already left. Her gaze drifted back to the Wade Mackie website, wondering what Tess saw there that she didn’t. Sure, the photos were glossy and professional, and the lighting was balanced, but there was a slick sameness to the shots, a Styrofoam sexiness that reminded her of vacant mannequins and over-processed hair. As she touched the mouse to click off the computer the memory card came back to life, bringing up the last image the camera had taken: she and Tess smiling into the lens.

Julie paused, studying the photo. As Tess had predicted, it was a keeper, the only one of the bunch. In fact, it was almost identical to her current screensaver, a photo her mother had taken of the two of them in third grade. One of a succession of many, actually. Though the setting and their ages varied, the pose was nearly always the same: Tess’s arm thrown over Julie’s shoulder, leaning together so their temples touched, beaming into the camera. The sort of cheesy best friends picture they both laughed at but Julie secretly cherished.

She clicked through the collection of photographs quickly, like viewing an age-progression simulation. Or a tortoise and hare competition. In grade school Julie, with her thick auburn hair and hazel eyes, had always been considered ‘the pretty one.’ Tess, the product of a Japanese mother and Swedish father, had looks that their classmates had termed ‘interesting.’ Wide, ice gray eyes and straight black hair, kittenish features that were too large for her face, gawky limbs that seemed to go on forever.

But everything changed after middle school. As Tess grew up she developed
the kind of outrageous natural beauty generally only allotted to supermodels, Disney princesses, and Cameron Diaz. In contrast Julie’s looks —her face, her body, her hair, everything— could be summed up in one detestable four-letter word: Cute.

Irritated, Julie shut off the computer screen. In truth, she rarely noticed Tess’s looks anymore and usually remained mildly amused by other people’s reactions to them. But now that Tess was so intensely focused on breaking into modeling ―all right, obsessed with― it seemed like that was all they talked about. Apparently it wasn’t enough that she was drop dead gorgeous. Now she wouldn’t be happy unless she was paid for it.

The newspaper Tess had brought sat beside the computer, neatly folded to the want ad section. A waitressing job. Julie briefly considered refusing to even apply, but immediately brushed the disloyal thought away. What if the situation were reversed? What if she’d been given Tess’s looks and that was the only thing in the world she really wanted? Tess would help her, wouldn’t she? Of course she would.

That’s what best friends were for.

Karly

It is rumored that Native Americans were the first people to reject Benton, Vermont. Indian tribes established settlements all over southern Vermont, upstate New York, and western Massachusetts, but there was no sign of settlement of any kind on the land that comprises modern day Benton. Local anthropologists studying the matter declared that the reasons for this varied— the rivers flowed uphill; the winds blew from the wrong direction; the grasses smelled sour. Whatever the specifics, it all came down to one thing: unlucky ground.

Not only did that information make perfect sense to Karly Hughes, she found tremendous comfort in the way it deflected personal responsibility. Her life was more than the sum of bad genes, bad luck, and bad choices. The ground beneath her feet was actually cursed.

She rolled over in bed and studied the ceiling. The old Victorian in which she and her mother lived might have once have claimed a quirky sort of charm, but as the neighborhood steadily deteriorated it had been left to fall into a state of dilapidated neglect. Their current landlord had bought the place in the late eighties and, with the sole intent of maximizing rent, divided the house into thirds using the architectural equivalent of an egg slicer. The resulting triplex was made up of tiny kitchens, dim hallways, narrow bedrooms, and drafty ceilings.

On the plus side, the paper thin walls eliminated any need Karly might have had for an alarm clock. The couple next door could always be relied upon to greet the day noisily. Sometimes it was the sound of their metal bed frame squeaking and knocking rhythmically against her wall that woke her. On those mornings, she’d dive under her pillow in embarrassment to block out the mental images that accompanied the sounds— she had to wave hello to these people for Godsakes.

Usually, however, what woke her were the sounds that carried over today: the sounds of fighting. Not physical fighting, fortunately. No need to get the cops involved. Just the ordinary arguments that resulted from waking late and rushing off to miserable jobs, having too little money, too many bills, and too little time. The sound of being squeezed so tight that fights weren’t really fights at all, but operated more like steam letting air out of a pressure valve before it exploded.

Rituals

Karly got out of bed and padded into the bathroom for a quick shower. She dried her long brown hair and pulled it back into a neat ponytail, then applied her makeup. Just a touch of eye shadow, a little mascara, a soft smear of lipstick.

That accomplished, she began her daily ritual of squishing herself into a B cup bra that was nearly stretched past its breaking point. Pity the poor guy who tried to unhook it― like handling a loaded gun. (Not that she had any guys hovering around. But still.) Wrestling with her bra every morning was admittedly stupid, but Karly was too stubborn to give in and buy a C cup. She harbored a serious suspicion that there was a direct link between cup size and grades. Her sister was a D cup and look where that got her. There was also the troubling matter of semantics. It seemed the larger her breasts grew, the less they were referred to as breasts at all, but boobs, a word she detested, or —God Forbid— tits.

She slipped into a plain white blouse and sandwiched her hips into a black denim skirt. The fabric pulled against her thighs, inching up rather than staying modestly above her knees but there was nothing she could do about it. When interviewing, dress as though you’ve already got the job, she’d read somewhere. White blouses and black skirts were what waitresses wore. She gave the mirror a quick glance, lied to herself that she looked fine, and left her bedroom for the kitchen.

She found her mother in her familiar morning stance: standing with her back to the room, staring out the kitchen window as she smoked her first cigarette of the day. Her mother had rituals of her own, and Karly knew better than to interrupt. Her mother worked two jobs, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays her schedule was especially rough. The receptionist’s desk at the assisted living facility from nine to four, followed by the swing-shift at Walmart, cashiering from four-thirty to midnight. This was her only quiet time of the day.

She poured herself a glass of orange juice and sipped it silently as she waited to be acknowledged. Finally her mother exhaled a thick stream of smoke and turned. “You going by Linda and Ronnie’s?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good. I picked up a couple of things for them. You can drop them off.”

Karly glanced at the kitchen table. An enormous package of diapers and a coupon for Ronnie’s favorite beer. Perfect. “If they don’t have money for diapers, what’s he doing buying beer?”

“Don’t you start on him, Karly.”

“I’m not—"

“Yes, you are. I don’t hear you complaining when he keeps that pickup of yours running for free.”

True enough. He was a good mechanic. She’d give him that. Karly swallowed her retort about the more obvious failings of her sister’s husband. It was a pointless topic to pursue, anyway. No matter what she said about Ronnie, her mother’s response was always the same: At least he married her, didn’t he? As though knocking Linda up and not immediately leaving town somehow qualified him for sainthood.

She steered the conversation into what she hoped would be a more productive area. “I’m applying for that job this morning. Remember the one I told you about? At that new diner in Manchester?”

“Seems a waste to drive thirty miles. There are waitress jobs right here in Benton.”

“Yeah, but they won’t tip the way the tourists in Manchester do.”

“I guess that’s so.”

Her gaze moved over Karly’s skirt and blouse. She took a last drag, exhaled deeply, and then ran the cigarette butt under the faucet before tossing it in the trash. “You’ve got the right build for tips, that’s for sure. Never did care much for waitressing myself, but I guess it’s as good a way as any to earn money.”

“I should make enough to pay for those drafting classes I’m taking down at the CCV. Then with whatever’s left I can help out around here or maybe put some away for college.”

“College is expensive.”

There was a long pause and Karly thought her mother was going to say more, but in the end she simply shrugged. “Well, good luck, baby. If it don’t work out, something else will. I got a bus to catch.” She picked up her purse and left.

Not exactly an inspiring motivational speech, but Karly hadn’t expected one. She grabbed the diaper package, her purse and keys, and headed out the door, pausing only long enough to crumple Ronnie’s beer coupon and bury it in the kitchen trash.