Gorgeous. Part 26

"No," I said. "I told Nico, that...that's private."

He c.o.c.ked his head. "But that's the story."

I shook my head.

"Allison," he said, "we can't just have a picture of a crying girl with no story. The story makes the picture. It will all, certainly, be in only the best taste. If anything makes you uncomfortable, we won't print it."

"Oh," I said. "Okay."

"The more details you can provide, of course, the more real it will feel to our readers, and the more likely you are to win."

"I thought it was just about how you look in a picture," I said.

He smiled wickedly. "Is anything so simple?"

"I guess not."

"A picture is an invitation, a question mark. Like beauty itself. What is it that makes one person beautiful and another not? Is it a cream, a blush, an arrangement of fabric? A billion-dollar industry, in which I am a cog, insists that it is. Is it anatomy? Symmetry? Or something more ephemeral? Thomas Aquinas, an old buddy of mine, said three things are needed for beauty: wholeness, harmony, and a killer mascara. No, wait, not mascara. Radiance. That's what he said. Radiance. Not a single plug for a brand of concealer from him. And you, Allison Avery, what is your theory?"

I shrugged.

"It's a simple question. Let's say you are our cover girl. What is beauty, to you?"

"Um," I said, thinking, They didn't say there was going to be a test They didn't say there was going to be a test. "I guess it is...feeling beautiful?"

"Ah," he said. "A tautology. Beauty is feeling beautiful."

"Or that's what it comes from," I said. "You are most beautiful when you feel beautiful."

"Do you really believe that?"

"No," I admitted. "I don't know. That's what I wish were true."

"And yet you manage to feel beautiful," he said. "Despite the fact that like so many other teens in these difficult economic times, your mother has lost her job, you are losing your house, your summer plans have evaporated, your friendships and social standing are under stress..."

"No," I said. "I didn't..."

"You texted responses to my a.s.sistant. We have them on the record."

"I did not."

He held up a typed paper. "I have it all right here."

I stood up. "You can't have texts from me that I never sent you."

He held out the paper. I only glanced at it but saw, highlighted in yellow, the names Tyler Moss, Jade Demarchelier, Roxie Green, Quinn, Tyler Moss, Jade Demarchelier, Roxie Green, Quinn, and and Phoebe Phoebe.

"No," I said. "You can't use it. No."

"Sit down, Allison. Let's keep chatting."

"No," I said.

"Don't you want to win?"

"Yes," I said. "I do."

"Winning isn't easy."

"I know."

"There are sacrifices we make if we want success. Do you think your mother got to where she got by shying away from a challenge? Do you think any successful person backed down at the first scary obstacle? If you want to be famous, if you want to be somebody somebody-and I think you do-there is a cost. You have to put yourself out there."

"Myself is one thing," I said. "This is my family."

He shrugged. "What price beauty?"

"It would destroy my mother."

"It would make you."

I opened my mouth but no words came out.

"Your mother has had her turn," the devil said softly. "It's your turn now. This is your chance, Allison Avery. This picture is gorgeous, and the story is so timely it will catapult you straight into the talk shows. Vogue Vogue would want it, would want it, Cosmo Cosmo, certainly all the other teen rags. We've already leaked the possibility to Oprah; she's drooling. It's happening, Allison. You've got the look, and you've got the story to propel it. If we pierce the veil of privacy, go behind the hedges in the estates of privilege..."

"Our hedges aren't even that high."

"Or you can choose to be afraid. You can say no. It is your choice. But let me be clear: If you walk away from this opportunity, another is highly unlikely to present itself."

"But if I'm so gorgeous..."

His eyes narrowed. "You make your reputation with every decision, day by day. And if your reputation is that of a gun-shy shirker, thus will you ever be. There is no turning back. Think carefully. The choices we make determine who we are. Who are you, Allison Avery?"

I swallowed hard, trying to think. Picturing myself on covers of magazines, famous, successful beyond my wildest dreams.

"You are poised to live the fantasy," he said. "How many girls would sell their souls for this chance?"

I blinked and felt a smile start on my mouth. "Not me."

"No?"

"I didn't," I said, and pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. "I just sold my cell phone."

His eyes crinkled slightly as he smiled only with them, at me.

"And that has actually kind of sucked. Because it's my connection, my relationships that I sold, wasn't it?"

He c.o.c.ked his head.

"I'm still not completely convinced that I have a soul," I told him. "But on the off chance that I do, I don't want to sell it."

He picked up the picture of me on the cover of zip zip again. This time he handed it to me. I put my cell phone down on his desk to hold the picture in both hands. It really was a cool picture. I actually looked gorgeous. I had to admit that if I saw that cover on a rack, I'd probably have to buy the magazine. again. This time he handed it to me. I put my cell phone down on his desk to hold the picture in both hands. It really was a cool picture. I actually looked gorgeous. I had to admit that if I saw that cover on a rack, I'd probably have to buy the magazine.

When I lifted my eyes again, my cell phone was in his large hand.

We stared at each other.

"It's just a dream," I whispered. "Right?"

"No," he whispered back. "Not just."

I looked back down at the picture of me, a picture I was beginning to recognize, now that I had had time to study it: Beautiful. Vulnerable. Me.

What price beauty?

Was it worth breaking my mother's heart? Or would it just be being honest? I hadn't lied, and it was just my story, my opinion. Maybe the devil was right that telling my story would help other people who were having tough economic times or family crises to cope. Maybe I would be doing something good in the world after all. And maybe for once I would be the Avery sister who people knew and noticed.

And n.o.body was guaranteeing I would win, anyway. Probably I wouldn't, right? That girl Siddhartha out in the waiting room was way prettier. So who cares; take a chance, right?

A chance to what, though?

If this was my chance to do something big, something good, what would that something be, and for whom?

It was my turn; he was right. All I had to offer was my face, my body, my story.

My story.

My soul.

The ripping sound almost surprised me. It was as if my fingers had made the decision before my brain. I tore straight down the center of the photograph, the middle of my face, the most beautiful picture of myself I'd ever seen. When I got to the end, I stacked the two pieces on top of each other and tore them again, and then again, and again. When I was done and held the sc.r.a.ps of myself in my hands, I stopped. I could so easily see myself throwing them right at the devil, just the way I had thrown my paper about Gouverneur Morris at the Fascist, and it would have looked about as festive. Instead I let the confetti of my own image flutter through my fingertips onto his pristine floor.

He watched until the last sc.r.a.p fell, and then said, "Alas."

"Alas," I agreed. I held out my hand and he gently placed my cell phone in it. I closed my fingers around it. It was cool to the touch. I grabbed my bag and walked through the sc.r.a.ps of me toward his door. When my hand was on the doork.n.o.b, he called my name.

I turned around.

"All to protect your family's honor?" he asked.

I shrugged. "That, or just perversity."

He smiled.

On my way down the hall I looked at my cell phone. It wasn't doing anything weird. I scrolled through my contact list, looking at the names. When I came to Ty, I knew what I wanted to do.

Hey, I texted. I texted.

When I got to the reception room I wished a terrified-looking Siddhartha good luck. The receptionist lady tried to explain that I had to go to the photo shoot room, but I thanked her and said I was done. As I was strolling through the corridor of gorgeous girls on zip zip covers, a pantheon I'd never join, Ty texted back: covers, a pantheon I'd never join, Ty texted back: You good enough yet?

I grinned and pushed the b.u.t.ton for the down elevator as I texted back: Yes. I am now. Will you go out with me?

I stepped into the elevator and my phone flashed, Searching for network Searching for network. I waited to feel the crush of panic, but I didn't. I was okay. I looked at my reflection in the burnished silver of the elevator walls and didn't shrink away in disgust. Gorgeous, Gorgeous, I whispered to my reflection, trying it out and feeling silly. I whispered to my reflection, trying it out and feeling silly. Beautiful, Beautiful, I tried, and my reflection looked back at me like, I tried, and my reflection looked back at me like, Well, maybe. Well, maybe.

It wasn't until I got out of the elevator and was crossing the vast marble lobby that my phone found service again and buzzed with an answer from Ty: Yes.

Great, I texted back. I texted back. Tell Gideon I look forward to meeting him. Tell Gideon I look forward to meeting him.

I pushed out through the revolving door and spotted my family waiting for me at the cafe across the street. Their heads all turned toward me with questions in their eyes. I shrugged and smiled, and they all smiled back.

It lit the world.

I tucked my cell into my pocket and crossed the street toward them.

Acknowledgments.

SOME THINGS I I NEED TO ACKNOWLEDGE NEED TO ACKNOWLEDGE:.

No books by me would be possible without Amy, who knows everything.

Thanks go also to Elise and Rachel, who know the Avery family at least as well as I do, and help me figure out how to bring them to life-and to all their lovely, lively colleagues at HarperCollins who turn my ma.n.u.scripts into books and get them into, as in this case, your hands.

The good people of the Authors Guild, through advocacy and fellowship, are a writer's best friends. The Writer Girls, who meet too rarely for tea and scones, remind me I'm not alone in this. And my buddies who have my back and make me laugh-I'd be lost without you.

Specific thanks go to Francie for taking me with her to work as a pretend a.s.sistant and helping me begin to understand the world of hedge funds and what it takes to succeed; to Mary for sharing tireless encouragement, strong opinions, and vital details about business, but most important, for the boundless joy of her friendship; to Becky, Lucy, Sophie, Isaac, Adam, and Emily, for answering my endless questions and just being all-around cool people to hang with; to Magda, who with great grace makes everything run smoothly; and especially to beautiful Trina for living with us last summer and confiding in me, trusting me, and teaching me...about being fifteen, and about being independent and vulnerable all at once.

A special shout-out to Zachary's friends, who are now teens themselves: You guys rock.

I hate to acknowledge but must (this being an acknowledgments page) that the two adorable babies I held when I was a new grown-up myself are, shockingly, heading off to college. Sarah and Hannah, you are such strong, smart, funny, creative, and certainly gorgeous women. Go make some noise, some friends, and some trouble.

"Acknowledge" sounds like something a wisdom-averse person would say: Ack! Knowledge! Ack! Knowledge! This is just something I think we should all, you know, acknowledge. This is just something I think we should all, you know, acknowledge.

Finally...a person as blessed as I am-surrounded by such wonderful parents, brother, in-laws, cousins, Aunt Tillie, friends, husband, and kids-should really acknowledge her pure dumb luck at every opportunity. Or not. Perhaps she should just shut up or say only, "Pooh, pooh, pooh." If she did, though, people would think her not only ungrateful but also odd. So you see the problem with an acknowledgments page.

As the devil would say, alas.