The Look by Sophia Bennett Read Free Book Online

Vaccines, or passing math.
    But she doesn’t. People tend to clam up when you mention cancer. I must remember that. It’s a bit of a conversation stopper.
    “Actually, I thought I might as well,” I say, as casually as I can.
    “What?”
    “Apply.”
    “Where?”
    “To Model City. You know, as a laugh.”
    Daisy jerks her head up in shock and spills her books all over her desk. I help her pick them up and pile them neatly.
    “ As a laugh ?”
    “Yes,” I say defensively. “They have a form on their website. I could just fill it in and see what they say. Ava’ll be pleased. If they say no, then that’s fine. I’ll stop thinking about what that guy said on Carnaby Street. If they say yes, then it means …”
    I pause. Daisy watches me, curious to see what I’m going to say next. I’m not sure myself.
    “… It means … Well, it’s just a laugh, really. It’s mostly about humoring Ava.”
    Daisy says nothing, but her expression says Oh yeah? She’s right, of course. It’s true that it’s mostly about humoring Ava, but another reason has crept up on me — one that I simply can’t mention out loud.
    If they say yes, it means I won’t feel so bad the next time Dean thinks of a nickname for me. It means that just once,somebody, somewhere, thought the freak with the unibrow looked OK. It would be a little secret I could hug to myself.
    Daisy can stare at me like that all she likes, but her dad plays bass in a Blondie tribute band and she’s got Debbie Harry’s autograph. I have … a pressed leaf collection. Besides, I wouldn’t actually do any modeling, because that would be crazy. And anyway, Mum wouldn’t let me. And I’d look really stupid in my undies.
    “It’s post-traumatic stress,” Daisy says, patting me on the arm. “You’ve gone a bit gaga. It’ll pass. Are you sure you’re up to school today?”
    She doesn’t get it, but I don’t care. Ava will help me with the photos for the form when I get home. It’ll be fun and silly and exactly what we need right now. All I have to do is send two snapshots and some basic details about myself. How hard can it be?

    Harder than I thought.
    After half an hour of rummaging through my half of the closet, Ava looks around at me in despair.
    “I thought this would be fun,” she complains. “I thought it would be like dressing Barbie. But my Barbie didn’t have a whole closet of nothing but hiking shorts and baggy cargo pants and … ugh! What’s this?”
    She pulls out a crumpled, green, tentlike thing.
    “It’s my Woodland Trust supporters T-shirt,” I say defensively. “I had to get the big size, because the others only came down to my —”
    “It’s offensive. Throw it away.”
    “It’s saving the planet!”
    She sighs. “You can wear that blue tank top you use to sleep in. It’s the least hideous thing I’ve seen. And what about skinny jeans?”
    I shudder. She sighs again.
    “What if they want to see your legs?” she asks.
    “Believe me, they don’t want to see my legs.”
    “But what if it matters?”
    I shrug. “That only makes it worse.”
    We settle on my least baggy cargo pants and the blue tank top. Which leaves us with the hair problem. Ava spends ten minutes “styling” the bird’s nest until it looks like a tornado’s passed through it, then gives up.
    “Let’s just take the pictures. Sit on your bed. The website says we have to do one full-face photo and one side-on. Ow!”
    She briefly squeezes her right hand into a fist. After several hours of scans and tests at the hospital, the backs of both her hands are punctured and bruised from all the needles that have gone in. But we’re not thinking about that. Mum’s spending most of her time on the phone to well-wishers, telling them we don’t know any details yet, and it gets very boring. Making me look like a supermodel is much more entertaining. Making me look like a supermodel is all we’ve got.
    Ava points her phone at me and I stare into the tiny