Star Page 4

  “Okay,” Star reviewed as she worked with Billy on Brandi’s face. “It’s concealer, foundation, and then contour.”

  “Well, not everyone needs contour,” Billy said as he drew in the bone structure that Brandi had not been born with. “Sometimes you can just use the foundation. But the trick is contouring just a couple of shades darker than skin tone. Along the sides of the nose, the tip, cheekbones—”

  “Or where you wish you had some,” Skip put in nastily.

  “—the temples, under the chin,” Billy went on narrating as he performed the task. “And then take one of these little sponges and blend.”

  “And you do the whole face before you highlight?” Star asked, fascinated by how much better Brandi looked already.

  “Exactly,” Billy said, dabbing at Brandi’s face with a tiny sponge. “It’s like you’re drawing in the idealized face, drawing attention to what’s best and taking focus off what’s not.”

  In the end, Brandi was transformed and Star was ready to stay on for the rest of the day and help out with the other girls who were coming in.

  “How did you guys end up with these great jobs?” Star asked as Brandi was swept out of the makeup room and onto the set.

  “Well, someone had already been elected president,” Skip said, shrugging as he pushed a broom in her direction and began sorting and preparing his equipment for the next session.

  “Queen is an hereditary title,” Billy corrected, giving Skip a little poke.

  “And someone had already filled the job fitting the football teams for jockstraps,” Skip concluded. “So, this was the next logical choice.”

  “Actually,” Billy said with a little laugh, “the first time I did this was for a man. A friend was doing drag for this competition in L.A., ‘The Battle for the Tiara.’ I was already doing hair and I helped him put his whole look together—Judy Izzem. Turned out my process works even better on real women.”

  “Oh my God,” Star said, pushing the hair off her forehead. “You guys are gay, aren’t you?”

  The guys broke up.

  “Did you just, like, come out of some sort of a waking coma?” Billy managed.

  “You are a treasure,” Skip said, grinning like Alice’s cat.

  “So you are then?” Star asked again.

  “Umm-hmm,” they answered her, nodding.

  “No offense,” Star said hurriedly. “I just never met anyone who was gay. Not that I was sure of, anyway. There was this one guy back on Arcady Key, Mr. Arden. He taught drama classes in a studio his roommate had converted out of their garage. I always thought maybe he was, but he never said for sure. And it seemed impolite to ask.”

  “And Mr. Arden’s roommate?” Skip asked, eyebrow raised.

  “Chuck? He did contracting work.” And then Star got it. “You think he was too?”

  “Who’s house was it to begin with?” Billy asked knowingly as he cleaned makeup brushes.

  “Chuck’s,” Star answered readily. “They met when Mr. Arden came through Miami with a touring company of Grease.”

  “I’m thinking,” Billy said, nodding.

  “Sounds like the sort of guy who might offer to push in your stool,” Skip said cryptically. Star missed the joke, but Billy smacked him on the back of the head anyway.

  “Cool,” Star said. “So, you’re not my first.”

  “Or the last, if you stay in this line of work,” Billy said with a little laugh.

  “I just hope that I’ll be as good as you two one day,” Star said, sweeping around the chairs. “Brandi looked fantastic. I’m working a couple of J-O-Bs saving for cosmetology school. How did you get the job with Judy?”

  “Well, it was a lot like you helping Brandi,” Billy suggested. “I think it’s the same course. You learn as you go. The more you do it, the better you get.”

  “We’ve got some time to kill between setups,” Skip suggested. “We could start now.”

  “You mean it?” Star said, clutching the broom handle like an award.

  “If you can make Billy pretty, the sky’s the limit,” Skip said with a vicious little laugh.

  “Bitch,” Billy cackled. “And with what you’ve already got to work with? We can make you look like a movie star.”

  “Climb aboard,” Skip said, patting the seat of one of the chairs. “We’ll start with you and then you can practice on us. I’m dying to get my hand on that hair. What color is this anyway?”

  “Oh.” Star blushed. “I call it manila, like the envelopes?”

  Skip laughed as he starting running his hands through. “That’s it all right.”

  “Brandi and I went out to Key Biscayne to work on our tans and there was this sale on Sun-In,” she said, wincing from the incident.

  “And how much did you use?” Skip asked, letting the damaged strands sift through his fingers.

  “Well, we didn’t have a lot of time,” Star admitted. “So, I used a whole bottle.”

  “And you know now that that doesn’t speed it up?” Skip pointed out as gently as was possible for him.

  “Now.” Star nodded.

  “Well, fortunately, I’ve got a few tricks that will help cover it. But they’re temporary.”

  “Perfect,” Star said, climbing into the chair.

  “So, how old is she?” the photographer asked under his breath.

  “Just, ummmm,” the assistant said quietly as she flipped through the forms on the clipboard. “Just twenty-one, barely that.”

  “Seems older somehow.” Ron shrugged, observing as the stylist and the lighting designer got Brandi settled in. “Not looks, but seems, you know?”

  “She’s been around, you mean?” the assistant asked.

  “Not really the Mann type,” he said by way of an answer.

  “How’s this, Ron,” the stylist called in their direction.

  “Let’s see.” Ron moved over to look at the scene through his lens. “Fan out the drape a little more to the right. Good. Now, Brandi, turn to look at me.”

  Brandi turned to him, wet her lips, and gave a little kiss toward the camera, which made Ron’s blood run a little cold. He pulled back from the viewfinder.

  “Okay then,” Ron said. “Let’s burn some film.”

  Ron got the shots and Brandi was a pliant and ready subject…a little too ready. She lacked a certain girl-next-door quality that he knew Jayne, the creative director for Mann—which was to say Marsten Mann—was looking for. This girl didn’t have it. She looked great. She was a good model too. But something about her technique suggested she might work better with a pole. He was beginning to think that the whole trip to Miami was turning out to be a waste.

  Ron tried to be fair and took her through a couple of setups, but he knew that she was never going to work out. Most girls they shot didn’t. He was skilled enough to know that that day’s shoot might be the best Brandi might ever get, and in the end he was only phoning it in.

  “And one more for fun,” Ron called as he always did at the end of his sessions.

  Brandi playfully tossed him the camisole she had been wearing as he reeled off the last shot. The crew broke up around them as the camera began to rewind itself. Between the laughter and the mechanical whirring, no one but Ron heard Brandi say it as she rose from the bench where she’d been posing and embraced him.

  “I can be a lot more fun than that,” she said, her bare breasts rubbing not so subtly against his arm.

  “I bet you can.”

  “Perfect,” Star called. “Hold it.”

  Skip and Billy struck their best vogue and held it. The Polaroid groaned and spit out another plate. Between the wigs and the makeup, Star’s skills, and their coaching, they were a presentable spectacle, but a spectacle nonetheless.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you two had done this before,” Star said, admiring the shot as it centered itself in the white square.

  “Okay, now you,” Billy said, recovering from one of a hundred fits of laughter Star had provoked s
ince they’d started. He grabbed another camera out of his bag. “You look amazing. I want to get some thirty-five-millimeter of you.”

  “Oh, come on,” Star said, waving off the flattery.

  “Look in the mirror, Star,” Skip said, taking her hand and turning her. He stood just behind her, his lips near her ear. He scrunched her hair a bit and let it fall. “See? You’re beautiful.”

  Her face lit up just as Billy’s flash filled up the room. “That’s the shot,” Billy screamed. “Now, baby, work it for me. Hit the fans.”

  Skip turned one of the blow-dryers on cool air and blew it in Star’s direction as Billy continued to shout out absurd and stagy photographer’s suggestions.

  “Bleed for me, baby,” Billy cackled. “Make love to me. Make me a sandwich.”

  They were all laughing so hard that they didn’t hear Brandi come in.

  Frozen, she watched Star play at being a model.

  “I’m ready to get out of this,” Brandi said, clearing her throat.

  “One of your arms broken or something?” Skip answered disdainfully.

  Billy got a couple more shots and Star insisted on taking a couple of Billy and Skip, as well as Brandi.

  “We’ll send you copies,” Billy said, tucking away the camera. “We’ve got Brandi’s contact information already.”

  “Great,” Star said as Brandi went to get changed. “And can I have one of these Polaroids of us?”

  “Sure, take a couple,” Billy said. “It was fun. And here’s that list of the things you should get for your kit. Though I’m telling you, you’re on the wrong side of the camera.”

  Brandi visibly stiffened.

  “He’s right, Star,” Skip said. “You should think about it.”

  “Well, my boyfriend is a photographer and he’s never even offered to take my picture at my birthday party, so I’m doubting that,” Star scoffed. “But thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll show him one of these.”

  “Meanwhile…,” Brandi huffed, throwing herself into a chair and pointing at her face.

  Billy handed her some cold cream and a box of wipes. “What about you, Star?”

  Brandi’s sigh was just short of a growl as she leaned forward to take off her makeup. This was always how it was with Star. She’d hoped that at her own shoot she’d get to be the center of attention. But, no. Not with Star around.

  Star waved him off. “I’m keeping my masterpiece as long as I can.”

  “You know how to do it now, but don’t give away our secrets,” Billy chided.

  “Maybe you can help us out if we’re ever back this way?” Skip suggested. “Do you have a résumé we can keep?”

  “Résumé? Me?” Star laughed as she tucked the Polaroids into the yellow tackle box, next to the Aqua Net and the Lucite fish-head lures. “What would I put on it? Mother Pearl’s Steak and Oyster Emporium? Or Talon’s Nail and Tan Spa?”

  “How about assistant to lead hair and makeup, Mann magazine?” Skip suggested.

  “That could work.” Star grinned. “Not really true.”

  “You were here and we’d swear to it,” Billy said, handing her their cards. “Send us your first draft when we send the photos.”

  “You got it,” Star said, hugging them both as Brandi struggled to put herself back to rights.

  The ride back to Star’s car had been largely silent. Brandi said she was tired from it all and wanted to get home and get a nap. But in truth she was anxious to get home and get cleaned up to meet Ron for her follow-up interview at his hotel later. She wasn’t about to miss a second chance to get into Mann magazine.

  “Thanks, honey,” Brandi said as she pulled into the lot behind Mother Pearl’s. “Sorry they didn’t really need you today.”

  “Are you kidding?” Star said, giving Brandi’s shoulder a playful shove. “I had a ball. They did my hair and makeup and I got my first professional job credit. It couldn’t have gone better for me.”

  “Oh, Star, you always make the best out of everything,” Brandi said, taking Star’s hand gently. “And don’t you listen to a word they said. You’d be great behind the camera.” She gave Star’s hand an understanding squeeze and then leaned across and popped Star’s door open for her. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “Sure,” Star said, in far too good a mood to be brought down by Brandi’s tactics. “And you let me know the minute you get those pictures.”

  “You bet,” Brandi called, pulling away even before Star’s door was closed.

  Star was blissful crossing the parking lot to her car, swinging her makeup kit like a little girl with a lunch pail on her way to school. Then she saw the note under her windshield wiper.

  Star—

  Baby, you know I love you so much it makes me crazy sometimes. I waited all night for you to come out, and when you didn’t, I didn’t know what I’d do without you. Call me or better yet come home.

  Adam

  P.S. If I’m not there, I may be at Marci’s, try me there.

  Star crumpled up the note and tossed it on the floorboard beside the I forgot your birthday bouquet.

  Marci. Adam’s model. He had put it in just to get at her. And it had worked.

  Adam was trying to get Marci into Mann magazine—to help both their careers, he said. And even though Adam was married, and even though Adam assured Star that there was nothing between them, finding those nude pictures was just more than she could take.

  Star slammed Rusty’s door, gunned the engine and went looking.

  By the time she got to Adam’s she had already worked herself up to the fight, arguing with him in her head the whole way. It was a bit of a letdown when she let herself into the apartment, flinging the door open and storming through the house looking for Adam and for trouble. No sign of either.

  She flung herself onto the sofa and waited. His car had been in the space downstairs so she figured he couldn’t have gone far. Probably around the corner to the Dash In. “The inconvenience mart,” he called it. Star softened, smiling as she thought of how much she enjoyed him. The arguments in her head seemed to fade as she thought about spending time with him and his family. Adam had been her high school sweetheart, and she’d spent so much time with them that being together just felt natural. But it had started to come apart when he’d moved to Miami to strike out on his own.

  When Star and Theresa had gotten a place and moved to the city, things had gone from bad to worse. Bad was locking her out of the apartment with no clothes. Worse was driving into an outdoor restaurant where she was having dinner with some friend, a stunt that had gotten his license suspended for six months—though that never stopped him from driving. Star didn’t know what the problem was, but she was sure there was a problem. He was jealous and possessive, and yet he didn’t seem to want her around. He wanted her on his terms, which meant back at his mom’s house on Arcady Key.

  Should she marry him? she wondered. It seemed like the right thing to do. She could kind of say that she’d waited until she was married ’cause he was the only guy she’d ever done it with. Well, except for those two times before Adam, but neither was real sex. And Brandi…well, girls don’t count. It wasn’t a good enough reason to stay, though, and there were plenty of good reasons to leave.

  But when she thought of leaving him, she thought of the time they’d gotten stuck at the top of the Ferris wheel at the Dade County fair and he’d made love to her to stop her being afraid. Or the way he’d come to find her when she’d been lost on the beach in a storm; he kissed her like he’d never let her go. Or just his gentle way with his nieces and nephews. He could be so tender, it was hard to believe that he was the same Adam as the wild man on the rampage.

  Maybe it was because she hadn’t said yes to his proposal. But how could she? Life with Adam was the Bavarian Mood Swings. What kept her around was his family. She loved being at their place. They did the kind of things that families were supposed to do on holidays—and regular days for that matter—and Star couldn’t get enough. br />
  On the Fourth of July, Adam’s family would barbecue ribs and grill burgers outdoors, playing lawn games until dark, when they could light off a few Roman candles and bottle rockets. The last time Star’s family had celebrated the Fourth her father had staged an impressive exhibition of his homemade rockets. They had lit up the night sky with chrysanthemums of purple and gold and silver—and their neighbor’s roof. What with the fire department, the sheriff, and the police force stopping by, it was quite a turnout. Not exactly Norman Rockwell, though.

  For Thanksgiving, Adam’s family gathered at the family home, and the boys played touch football on the lawn while Star helped Adam’s mom and sisters make green bean casserole, sweet potato pie, and a turkey so huge it took two of them to carry it in for Adam’s father to carve. Star’s family never did an official Thanksgiving because her mom was always working. Turkey Day was a particularly lucrative holiday for waitresses, and Lucille couldn’t pass up the extra money. She’d cook turkey and trimmings the day before and leave them for Star, her father, and her brother, Hank, to enjoy. What Lucille didn’t know was that as soon as she left for work, Rick called his “poker buddies”—his euphemism for drinking cronies. Each Thanksgiving, Rick and the poker buddies got drunk, ate the food, and passed out on the porch. Star and Hank made a game of throwing pebbles and small shells at the unconscious guests, with various point values for scored hits. But it didn’t make Thanksgiving special. They could play “bean the drunk” anytime their father’s friends came to visit, which was often when her mom was at work. But it wasn’t all bad. The visits often included swimming in the ocean in their underwear, the occasional beer, and trips to local bars and nightspots, all of it kept in strictest confidence from Lucille.

  The fact was, Star’s father was a genius—a frustrated genius, but a genius nonetheless. Never satisfied simply working for someone else, he was always busy with some scheme or other. His schemes were always brilliant, but they never really came to anything other than another visit from the police or the county health inspector. Rick could balance the checkbook in his head, keep track of all the cards in a poker deck, and do the crossword in ink. He never missed a question on Jeopardy!, and Wheel of Fortune hadn’t come up with a puzzle to stump him yet; but he’d never found a practical application for his genius that didn’t blow up in his face.