Chic magazine was located in a snazzy new steel-and- glass building in the middle of Times Square. It was just one of the high-profile media properties owned by the Christie-Best organization, a conglomerate that also counted Flash, Kiss, Splendid, and Mine among its many other one-word-only glossy titles. Its lobby was a serene, marbled space with a dribbling Zen fountain and an army of blue jacketed security guards who manned the onyx reception desks.
One afternoon after school, Bliss stood patiently in the lobby while waiting for the guard to call up to Chic's model booker for entrance. Farnsworth Models had sent her for a go-see, an appointment to see if the magazine would like to hire Bliss for their next photo shoot.
Bliss was wearing her standard go-see outfit: tight, tight dark-wash Stitched for Civilization jeans, Lanvin flats, a loose white blouse. Her face was freshly scrubbed and free of makeup, as advised by her agency. Bliss had been much in demand since she had booked the Stitched campaign, and the photos of her in the dazzling Dior dress had been reprinted all over the globe--crowning her the new young socialite (and displacing Mimi in the international best-dressed list). She had shot a shoe ad, a Gap ad, and had already done a five- page editorial spread in Kiss. Chic was the mother lode, the top of the glossy heap, and while Bliss thought modeling was a bit of a lark, she also wanted the gig very much.
"Schuyler Van Alen," she heard the girl at the next station tell the guard.
"Schuyler! Are you here for the Chic go-see?" Bliss asked, pleasantly surprised to find Schuyler there as well.
"I am." Schuyler smiled back. Ever since her grand- mother's passing, she had turned down the modeling oppor- tunities that had come fast and furious after her Times Square Stitched for Civilization billboard. But Linda Farnsworth had convinced her to keep the Chic appointment, and Schuyler had agreed, if only to keep her mind off the distressing news that Charles Force wanted to adopt her.
As usual, Schuyler looked like a ragamuffin in her tat- tered sweater, empire-waist tunic, footless tights, and Jack Purcell sneakers, with several layers of plastic beads draped around her neck. Although, it should be noted that several fashion editors who had spotted her in the lobby had quickly noticed her unique style, and three months later, the pages of Kiss, Splendid, and Flash would all feature an outfit eerily similar to the one Schuyler was wearing.
"You girls can go up," the guard told them, beeping them through the automatic turnstiles.
The Chic office was on the tenth floor, and Schuyler and Bliss felt a little intimidated by the immaculate surroundings. The interior waiting area was lined with poster-size blowups of the most famous Chic magazine covers a virtual tour of the most celebrated beauties of the twentieth and twenty-first century.
A grandmotherly receptionist advised them to take a seat on one of the white Barcelona chairs.
The girls chatted quietly about neutral topics: school gos- sip, tests, why the cafeteria was suddenly serving hot dogs. They both studiously avoided the topic of Dylan's death--Schuyler, because she feared it would hurt Bliss too much, and Bliss, because she felt there was nothing more to say, since the boy in the lake had turned out to be Kingsley.
"You've been hanging out with Kingsley a lot," Schuyler said, when Bliss mentioned he had taken her to a party at the hot new club, Disaster.
"Yeah." Bliss bit her thumb. She was sitting forward on the edge of the chair, not quite comfortable enough to take up too much space. She held her black, modeling portfolio on her lap. "He's cool."
Bliss still hadn't figured out who or what Kingsley had been in her past, although she had to admit he made the present pretty fun. He seemed to have it in his mind that Bliss was his girlfriend, and the two of them spent most of their free time together. Kingsley always seemed to have the latest invitations to the best parties, and with him at her side, Bliss no longer felt like a wallflower, but more like a social butterfly. Besides, her own growing fame was making her increasingly confident among the glittering denizens of New York nightlife. Even Mimi had sourly mentioned how sick she was of seeing Bliss's name in boldface in the newspaper columns.
"How's Oliver?" Bliss asked.
"Fine," Schuyler said abruptly. In truth, Oliver had been a tad distant lately, after being so commiserative before. Maybe it was a reaction to her pulling away from him, or his own reservations about the changing nature of their relationship. The transition from best friend to human Conduit was not an easy one to maneuver.
They stopped talking when a willowy brunette walked through the glass doors. She was wearing a loose peasant blouse belted at the hips, skinny denim shorts, patterned tights, and wedge heels. The effect was quirky and offbeat, as if she'd thrown the outfit together at the last minute, when in reality it had probably taken hours of studying runway shots and careful calculation of each element's relationship to the outfit as a whole weighing the options as meticulously as a an artist mixing paints.
"Bliss? Schuyler?" she called.
"Chantal?" Schuyler asked.
"No, I'm Keaton, Chantal's assistant."
"As in Diane or Buster?" Schuyler joked.
Keaton ignored her. "Chantal's late at an accessories meeting, but she told me to bring you in," she said conde- scendingly.
Keaton led them through the white carpeted hallway, where girls dressed in similar fashionable eccentricity glided through the maze of cubicles in four-inch heels. Rolling racks of clothing were parked against the wall, with cards and notations on hangers that read "JAN FRONT OF BOOK," "REJECTS," "GO," "BRANNON MTG," "RETURNS," and "INDEX."
Chantal's office was a mess of modeling portfolios, and one solid wall was filled with hundreds of models' glossy eight-by- tens and Polaroid pictures. There were blue pages of next month's cover, mock-ups of the February issue, and a little teacup-size terrier yapping in the corner.
"Wait here," Keaton ordered. "Don't move."
Schuyler and Bliss did as told, even though Bliss really wanted a glass of water and Schuyler was dying to use the bathroom. But the atmosphere at Chic was so intimidating, and Keaton so humorless, neither of them wanted to risk it. An hour later, Chantal finally arrived. Bliss expected another tall glamazon, but Chantal was a small, short, pinched-looking woman with a pixie haircut and cat's- eye glasses. She wore a loose APC sweatshirt and baggy trousers, as well as comfortable (but limited edition and therefore, punishingly expensive) Japanese sneakers.
"Hi girls," she said briskly, then immediately called out, "Keaton! My Polaroid! Didn't I tell you to bring it?"
She sat at her desk and flipped through each of their portfolios quickly. "Yes, saw that. Nice. Ooh. Not bad. Like that one, not so much that," she muttered. She slammed both books closed and instructed them to pose against the one blank wall in her office as she took several shots of each girl with her camera. Bliss went first.
It was all business as usual until Bliss suddenly fainted as the flashbulb exploded in her face.
"Oh my God. She's not anorexic, is she? I mean, it's fine if she is, God knows all the girls are. But I can't have her doing that on the shoot," Chantal said, more annoyed than concerned, as Bliss crumpled to the floor.
"No, that's not it," Schuyler said, worried. She knelt down and put a hand on Bliss's forehead. "It's a little hot in here."
Bliss was making odd groaning sounds and dry-heaving. "No...Go away...No..."
"It'll be hotter on location," Chantal said darkly. "God help me if she vomits on my carpet."
Schuyler glared at her, annoyed that the booking editor seemed to care more about her office than Bliss's health.
"Bliss? Bliss? Are you okay?" she asked, helping her friend to her feet. Bliss blinked her eyes open. "Schuyler?" she said throatily.
"Yeah."
"I need to get out of here," Bliss implored. "Keaton will walk you out. I'll let Linda know," Chantal said as she picked up the ringing telephone. It was obvious the booking editor had moved on to other concerns once the threat of projectile regurgitation had subsided.
Schuyler helped Bliss out of the office. "Steady. Easy." She pressed the down elevator button and glared at a Christie-Best girl, who gave them a curious look.
"I blacked out," Bliss said. "Again."
"Again?"
"It happens all the time now," Bliss told Schuyler about the nightmares she was having and the dizzying experiences of waking up and finding herself in places where she had no memory of going. "I'll just wake up and I'll be somewhere else, with no idea where I am. I guess it's all part of the transformation," Bliss said.
"Yeah, it's happened to me too. Not as dramatic as what you've described, but a couple of weeks ago I blacked out. More like a hibernation, Dr. Pat said." Schuyler explained her condition as she led Bliss inside the elevator.
"Mine are pretty short, and it's part of the memory flash- backs, except I don't seem to remember anything," Bliss explained, looking relieved that she wasn't the only one who suffered from the episodes.
"I guess we just need to deal with it."
"Kingsley said there are tricks to coping with it. He's going to show me how."
The elevator arrived in the lobby, and as the doors opened, Jack Force entered. He was wearing a black Christie-Best "guest" sticker on his lapel with 10TH FLOOR written on it.
"Oh, hey," he said, looking somewhat embarrassed.
"Don't tell us..." Bliss said, grinning. "Jack Force, super-model! Can you show us Blue Steel?" she joked, quoting from Zoolander.
"Shhhh," Jack said, smiling sheepishly. "It's not my idea. But they need guys for some upcoming shoot. Chantal's a friend of my mom's, and well, here I am."
"We just saw Chantal," Bliss said, keeping the conver- sation afloat since Schuyler was too shy to speak to him directly.
"So I guess I'll see you guys at the shoot." Jack grinned.
"Yeah right," Bliss said. "I don't think so. I fainted when she took my picture, and Schuyler didn't even get a Polaroid. I don't think there's any chance of either of us getting picked."
It was difficult to determine who looked more disappointed Jack or Schuyler--as the elevator doors shut.
