Experiment #25 - Modelland - Chapter 5

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Modelland - Chapter 5
By Tyra Banks


Sam: *Wanders into the theater, looking disapproving of everything...especially the fact that he is now a pink eagle instead of a blue one.* Hmmph. This story had at least better be appropriate for all audiences, considering recent ones.
Sasami: *Wandering in right behind, trying to ignore the oddness of her clothes now sporting one too many rainbows* ...it can’t be that bad, right?
Ienzo: *Brings up the lead, shrugging at the questions and doing his absolute best to ignore the slew of colors that have been splashed across his habitual lab coat. From what he’s seen they tend to be hit or miss on both counts.*
Sam: Yes. Yes it can be.

SMACKING INTO MIRRORS

Sam: *rubs his forehead* I feel like this font just smacked into my head.
Sasami: Well, at least we know the title is...
Sam: Yes. Too large.

A few minutes later, Tookie stood in the doorway of the bedroom she shared with Myrracle. She was trying to enter the room, but a pile of leotards blocked her way, as well as a pair of toe shoes, two pairs of jazz shoes, and one stray sandal.

Ienzo: *raises an eyebrow. Just one stray sandal?*
Sam: Shoes. How formidable.

A long piece of duct tape bisected the room, separating Tookie’s side from Myrracle’s, but it made no difference—Myrracle’s mess had invaded every corner in the same way mildew grew on tub tile. Dirty clothes were piled on the floor. Makeup trays and brushes and used cotton balls and a pair of dirty socks lay strewn about Tookie’s otherwise neatly organized dresser.

Sam: Goofus and Gallant share a bedroom.

There was a sweat-stained leotard on Tookie’s pillow; ample-cupped bras that certainly didn’t belong to Tookie were draped across Tookie’s carefully made bed, and torn-out pages from Modelland magazines were scattered across the floor like leaves that had fallen from a fashion tree.

Sam: If a tree falls in a fashion forest, does it go out of style?
Ienzo: *doodles a magazine tree on the “dead guy here” sign* ?

Tookie tossed the bras, three pairs of dance shoes, and a variety of necklaces, bracelets, and leg warmers off her bed and onto Myrracle’s side of the floor. Every evening, Tookie flung Myrracle’s junk to her side. And every afternoon when she came home, it had all migrated back to Tookie’s side once more.

Sasami: The clothes are alive! Run!
Sam: If clothes were alive, they should at least have the decency to wash themselves.
Ienzo: Washing machine isn’t in the migratory pattern?

Tookie slumped down on her bed. Myrracle is walking on The Day of Discovery with a SMIZE, she thought once more. She wasn’t sure why it bothered her so much—everyone in her class was walking. Abigail, Zarpessa.

Zarpessa.

Sam: Gesundheit.

The image of Zarpessa and Theophilus kissing in the hall flashed in her mind. She closed her eyes and clenched her fists.

Sasami: “Myrracle”. “Zarpessa”. “Theophilus”. Someone’s being creative or someone played a game of Scrabble...
Sam: And this is why this nation continues to need Spelling Bees.
Ienzo: Better education.

If only Zarpessa hadn’t come up when Tookie and Theophilus were having their moment! Had Theophilus really spoken to her? Would she ever get a moment like that again?

Sam: You could attempt to recreate the moment by approaching him and then speaking to him yourself, like normal people do.

She closed her fingers around the newly defective TOOKE button. This piece of Theophilus fit perfectly in the heart of her palm, the metal pin cold against her dry skin. She gazed at its lacquered message.
TOOKE
Theophilus, oh, Theophilus. Tookie swooned. She closed her eyes and licked her lips.

Sasami: *as Tookie* So delicious. So mouth-watering... *she stops, and puts her face in her hands* I can’t believe I said that!

Your salted-caramel eyes, Theophilus …

Sam: Why must these stories always insist on describing people as food?

She imagined Theophilus right in front of her. She leaned toward him, her eyes closed, her lips caressing the air.

We can call our boy Tookophilus and our girl Thoodie!

Ienzo: *scowls. Those are absolutely hideous names.*
Sam: No. You may not call them that.

She puckered and her lips connected with a solid, cold surface.

Sam: That sounds more like that Edward vampire person.

Theophilus, she thought. Oh, yes, baby. I’m so happy you’re giving me my very first kiss.

“What are you doing?”

Sasami: *as Tookie* Not now, daydreaming!
Sam: Giving horrible names to imaginary children, of course.

Tookie opened her eyes. She was face to face with herself. Her lips were in contact with Myrracle’s full-length mirror. There, on the reflective glass, was the blurry outline of her broad, puffy lips. Tookie whirled around. Myrracle stood in the doorway with one hand on her hip.

Myrracle’s eyes glimmered.

Sasami: ...so Myrracle’s a cat? Kitteh lasers set to stun!

“Are you making in with yourself?”

Ienzo: *...Okay, even he knows that isn’t the right terminology. Unless it’s a matter of different worlds have different slang?*
Sam: That sounds even less appropriate than the real phrase!
Ienzo: *generally unconcerned either way*
Sasami: Um... nope, I got nothing.

Tookie ducked her head.

Myrracle pirouetted to Tookie’s perfectly made bed and flopped down on the mattress. “Who do you wanna kiss?”

Sam: The same person Narcissus did, apparently.

Tookie turned away, clamping her mouth shut.

“Brian Quincy?” Myrracle teased.

Sam: --Adams?

“Ugh, no!”

“Who, then?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t feel bad about not doing kissing yet,” Myrracle said in a teasing voice. “It feels like a little wormy man is crawling in your mouth, anyways.”

Ienzo: “Doing kissing”? *something is not quite right with that phrasing...*
Sasami: Ew! I don’t want to kiss now!
Sam: Good. Neither of you should be doing any kissing anyway.

A wave of humiliation rushed through Tookie. “Who says I haven’t kissed anyone?” Okay, so maybe it’s true, but is it written all over my face?

Sasami: About as big as the chapter title...

Myrracle sniffed. “Come on. But it’s okay. Doing kissing with yourself is better than doing no kissing at all, Dookie.”

Sam: I beg. To differ.

She giggled a little as she left the room, managing to drop a cardigan sweater, a tap shoe, and several gum wrappers on Tookie’s side as she left.

Sam: I would say that took talent, if being an insufferable slob was something that involved talent at all.
Ienzo: *nods agreement. Even Braig isn’t this bad.*
Sasami: *nods as well*


Tookie’s eyes popped open.

Ienzo: *Tilts his head a little. They were closed?*

Cold, chipped tile pressed against the bottoms of her feet. Icy wind gushed around her flannel hand-me-up pajamas. She wasn’t in bed, as she was supposed to be, but standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.

Sasami: And standing in front of the refrigerator, apparently.

How did I get here? She couldn’t remember turning the knob of her bedroom door, walking down the stairs, or padding through the hall.

Sam: I suppose the sentient clothing must have carried her there.
Ienzo: *Offers a mildly impressed look. Must be some strong clothes, then*

She then looked into the dark room in front of her and gasped. Balanced on one hand in the center of the living room’s tattered carpet was her father, clad in a colorful unitard.

Sasami: *eyes wide* ...um...
Sam: *narrows his eyes, and prepares to shield the innocent children here from INAPPROPRIATE IMAGES.*

His waist twisted in the air. His legs were bent at an awkward angle. His muscles strained and shook. An empty bottle of TaterMash, a colorless distilled beverage imported from Kremlingrad, lay tipped over on the floor.

Sam: *gasps* COMMUNISM.
Sasami: Commun-wha?
Ienzo: ?
Sam: Communism! It is bad for young children and others!
Ienzo: *...but what is it?*
Sam: It is...ANTI-AMERICAN.
Sasami: ...oh! *Alien princess living in Japan, but if it’s bad for America, it could be bad for others, right?* Right, Communism’s bad!
Ienzo: ...oh. *He’s not really getting it, but it’s not like America is somewhere he’s familiar with, which... probably means it’s not close to Radiant Garden.*
Sam: *nods, feeling they understand it enough* Yes, indeed, it is.

Next to it was a faded photograph of The Incredible Chris-Crème-Crobat, otherwise known as Christopher De La Crème. In the photo, Tookie’s father still possessed both of his green eyes. And he didn’t have the couch-potato paunch.

Sam: ...Has one eye changed color or some such?

Tookie ducked behind the wall. When she was much younger, she’d assisted her father during many of his acrobatic practices; he’d even told her, lovingly, that they made a good team. And she had attended many of her father’s performances with the Circo del Soul troupe before his tragic accident.

Sam: Meanwhile, Cirque du Soleil calls in a lawsuit.
Sasami: Maybe that’s the tragic accident...

She could still remember that day in almost perfect detail—the sparkling-gold cover of the programs, the plush red velvet seats, the set-your-mouth-on-fire taste of the bag of Gouda-and-habanero-flavored popcorn,

Sasami: The gouged prices for water to cool off your mouth from that popcorn...
Ienzo: *not even sure why they would have gouda-and-habañero popcorn*

and the sharp, five-foot swords that pointed skyward all along the perimeter of the stage.

Ienzo: *again, why?*
Sam: What. Is the purpose of those.

Three tumblers juggling fire with their tongues while jumping on humongous translucent trampolines suspended over the audience had been the first act. Next was a group of ten-year-old girls, contortionists who had backflipped into deep, hot-pink-dyed swimming pools full of crocodiles.

Sam: *gasps* That is. Not safe.
Ienzo: None of it is.

And then the lights had dimmed, and mysterious music filled the air.

Sasami: Cat on a piano.

A single spotlight shone down on Tookie’s ripple-bodied father, the headlining star of Circo del Soul. Tookie had swelled with pride as her father looped and danced and climbed a dental-floss-thin wire.

Sam: To escape this madness.

Her father, the mighty Chris-Crème-Crobat, was going to execute a new move that evening. Circo del Soul had billed it as the first time any human had ever attempted such a feat. Mrs. De La Crème was full of pride that evening too.

Sam: This can only end in tragedy.

However, right as Tookie’s father had reached the seventh-story landing on the stage, Mrs. De La Crème pulled out her mirror to add a bit of Wrinkle Redux to her tanned and hideously lined face—“I want to look my best when the cameras all turn to me after his feat is done,” she murmured. But the mirror caught a beam of light that shone right into Chris-Crème-Crobat’s eyes, momentarily blinding him.

Sam: ...Never mind. This is less tragedy than just completely implausible.

In a panic, he lost his footing and fell seven stories. Most acrobats would have had extensive injuries or even died, but not Tookie’s nimble father. He tucked his body and landed smoothly on his upper back, propelling himself forward into a smooth tumble.

Ienzo: ...Physics?
Sam: No. Implausibility.
Sasami: Her father’s Sonic the Hedgehog!

The audience erupted into cheers. Chris-Crème-Crobat then arched upward to stand from his backbend and face his adoring, applauding, whistling, screaming fans. Ever the devoted showman, he thrust himself forward into a deep bow, impaling his eye on one of the five-foot swords at the perimeter of the stage.

Sam: *slooooooow facepalm*
Sasami: ...
Ienzo: *...no words*
Sam: As I said before: Not. Safe.

Tookie had wrestled past the security barricade and run to the stage. Pools of her father’s blood splattered the stage floor, along with pieces of flesh. And there, staring up at her, was her father’s eye. Disembodied, lifeless on the stage floor, gazing at Tookie accusingly as if asking, Why?

Sasami: I don’t know, creepy eye. I just don’t know.
Sam: I have no answers for this. Only disapproval.

In the days that followed, Tookie was afraid her father would die. But when they’d gotten word that the blade had caused no brain or nerve damage,

Ienzo: *sigh* Optic nerves are still nerves. There would be nerve damage by that fact alone.

she’d rejoiced, which angered her mother. “Don’t you see?” she cried in Tookie’s face. “This is the end for him. He only has one damn eye. He’s damaged. Defective. Done!”

Sasami: There’s always becoming a pirate!
Ienzo: *quick, no one tell Braig*
Sam: What a waste of perfectly good alliteration.

Her mother had then calmed down and held Tookie’s shoulders. “It was a freak accident, okay. You and I do not have any idea where that beam of light came from that made him fall.”

Sam: ...How would this terrible example of a mother even be *aware* that a beam of light from a *pocket mirror* affected an actor on a stage that is typically covered in bright lights?

Tookie had been only eight years old, but she’d fully understood what her mother was telling her: Forget what happened. Tell no one.

Ienzo: *unimpressed with this “forgetting” if she still remembers*
Sasami: Forget what happened. Tell no one. Except for the rest of the audience.
Sam: How I wish I could forget all of this.

Tookie let out a loud sniff, caught up in the memory. Mr. De La Crème’s head shot up. His good eye squinted into the dark kitchen. “Who’s there?”

Sam: *as Mr. De La Creme* If you are selling pocket mirrors, you’re not welcome here!

Tookie bit down on her bottom lip and didn’t move.

“I said, who’s there?”

Tookie slowly padded into the hall and showed her face. Mr. De La Crème ran over to the couch, tore open the packaging of a new chenille blanket, and quickly covered himself with it. “What the—”

Sasami: Jawa impression, go!
Sam: ...What.
Ienzo: *shrugs. He’s pretty sure Mr. De La Crème had been wearing a unitard.*

“I’m sorry, Daddy!” Tookie said. “I was sleepwalking again!”

“You scared the hell outta me, girl!” he slurred.

Sam: I believe he is the more frightening one here, honestly.

Tookie backed slowly away. She pointed at the photo on the floor. “You doing your old routines?” she asked. “You’re still really good.”

Mr. De La Crème harrumphed. “In some quadrants, spying on people is punishable by death.” But as he ducked his head, Tookie saw a tiny smile flash across his face.

Sasami: That’s never a good sign.
Ienzo: *shakes his head for added emphasis. It really isn’t...*
Sam: *prepares to shield eyes again*

“You want me to spot you?” Tookie asked.

Mr. De La Crème considered the offer for a long moment. “Like when you were a wee little thing?”

Tookie grinned. This was the first time since the tragic incident he agreed to let her help him. Mr. De La Crème got on his hands and knees once more and spread his palms wide. “All I need you to do is watch. For two things. One, if it looks like I’m going to fall, you gotta warn me before I do, so I can right myself.

Sam: I don’t think falling works that way.
Ienzo: Maybe he’s secretly Braig.

Two, watch out for that mean mother of yours. Understood?”

Sasami: *as Mr. De La Creme* Her and her pocket mirrors...
Sam: “Mean” may not be the appropriate adjective here.
Ienzo: “Shrew”?
Sam: That is closer, yes.

“Absolutely, Daddy,” Tookie said. She watched as her father pressed into the handstand again, the veins in his arms bulging, his paunch shaking, sweat pouring down his face. Tookie stared at her father’s flabby stomach and glass eye. Her mother obviously loved him less, or had fallen out of love completely, now that he was defective. In a way, it only made Tookie connect with her father more: they were two defectives in a world that was obsessed with perfection.

Sasami: I hate to sound cynical, but I think there are a lot more defectives here than you two...
Sam: Such as this grammar.

Suddenly, her father let out a groan and tipped over. Tookie jumped out of the way to avoid his heavy falling legs, which nicked the coffee table.

Sam: Oh, and I suppose someone installed decorative swords in the coffee table, too? *groans*

“What the hell, girl?” he roared. His face had flushed as red as a spit-polished apple, and his hair was streaked with sweat. “Why weren’t you paying attention? Why didn’t you tell me I was out of position?”

Ienzo: Maybe she doesn’t remember the positions.
Sam: Too busy flashing back to inappropriately violent circus acts.

“I’m sorry!” Tookie cried, instantly regretting her daydreaming. “I promise it won’t happen again!”

Her father stared at her for a moment, carefully examining her. A startled, disgusted expression flashed across his face, as if a light had flipped on inside his head.

Sasami: *as Mr. De Le Creme* I was supposed to bow AWAY from the swords! Gah!
Sam: *smacks his forehead* Of course.

It was a look Tookie had seen before—but one he’d never explained.

“Just go. For all of us,” he said, waving her away.

Tookie’s feeling of being needed was replaced by an emptiness that now burned deep inside her.

Ienzo: *not... sure emptiness works that way*
Sam: I have never heard of combustible emptiness.
Sasami: Because it always blows up.
Ienzo: *...of course*

She resisted the urge to plead with her father and instead turned away and went back to bed.

Sam: *shakes his head* That was a terrible and pointless use of the English language.
Sasami: Suddenly, I have the urge to try something out... not with swords! Don’t worry!
Ienzo: *glad to hear it. The fewer sword related accidents, the better*
Sam: If you are going to try something, it had better be safe!
Sasami: It will! Don’t worry! ...I hope.
Sam: *stares at her*
Ienzo: *also stares, but more out of curiosity than concern*
Sasami: *as she hops up and heads for the door* I just need a pocket mirror and a lamp!
Sam: *....another sloooow facepalm*
Ienzo: *...potential science! That’s all he needs to hear, and he climbs out of his seat and follows*
Sam: *gets up last, grumbling to himself* I *knew* this story would be a terrible influence...