Mom’s in the living room of Grandma’s tiny yellow house, striking a slumped pose on the 1980s brown plaid sofa. In her off-white Valentino shift dress, she’s more the picture of a model on an ironic Nylon magazine photoshoot than a mom hanging with her daughter. She’s got Lois Veering on speakerphone.
“The day of the supermodel is dead. Truly dead,” Lois Veering moans. She’s the editor of Par Donna. Nobody likes Veering. I’d bet fifty bucks that she won’t last, that it’s just a matter of time before her assistant edges her out.
She’s calling Mom. Because anybody who’s anybody hates fur. “And they’re strutting around naked in the trades. On my shoots demanding vegan pizzas and goji berry smoothies,” she says. “I need you, Leslie. I really need you.”
In spite of the best efforts of sexy celebrities and inked-up athletes, fur companies keep raking in cash—around $15 billion a year. Their sales are up worldwide. The Eastern European nouveaux riches and the wives of Chinese millionaires, they want their mink.
“The biggest threat to fur is global warming,” Veering sneers.
And the biggest threat to fashion magazines is sluggish ad sales. Atelier Fur has big bucks. They want a cover. A supermodel. They want photographer Bruce Richardson.
Mom’s there to pick me up from the tiny yellow house for a spa weekend in La Jolla. It’s my bad luck that Grandma gets home early from her hair appointment.
“We can just do it another time, Mom,” I say. “It’s no big deal.”
Grandma comes in. Takes one look at Mom, phone in hand.
“Cookie, go wait in your room,” Grandma says.
“It’s fine, Grandma. Everything is fine,” I say.
“Go,” she orders.
Of course, I can hear them through the paper-thin walls.
“You got one daughter, Leslie. One,” Grandma says. “It’s her sweet sixteen. And I didn’t plan nothin’ ’cause you said you were coming to get her.”
“I’ll clear my schedule in a week or two,” Mom says. “Cookie’s fine with it.”
“Yeah,” Grandma answers. “She’s just about jumpin’ for joy.”
“Well, I guess she’s carrying on the grand family tradition of being disappointed in her mother,” Mom snaps.
“Oh, I see,” Grandma replies. “I was a shitty mother to you. And you get special permission to be shitty to your girl? Well, you say what you want about me, Leslie. But I made dresses for all seven of Nina Udall’s bridesmaids so you could have a cake with sixteen candles and a fancy party dress to celebrate in.”
“I have to work. Lois Veering is asking me to do a job. Do you have any clue what happens to models who say no to Lois Veering?”
I imagine Grandma’s disgusted face. The beads of sweat forming at her gray-blue hairline. “Shoot, Leslie. You got plenty of money. Plenty of fancy things. If you’re paradin’ around half-naked in a magazine, it ain’t cause you have to, it’s cause you want to. And I ain’t never asked you for money. All I ask is you try to be decent to your child. If you say you’re gonna do something, you keep your damn word.”
If only the hairdresser had used one more roller, Mom might have been gone by the time Grandma got home. Instead, I spend the next half hour wondering what I can wear to Whitefish. The high temperature there is thirty-seven degrees. I’ve got one light sweater and a windbreaker.
“We’ll pick something up on the way,” Mom says.
And on the way means at the airport gift shop. I have to go to a men’s store. Nothing fits anywhere else. Because Grandma came home from her hair appointment early, I’m going to spend my sixteenth birthday in a fire-engine red sweatshirt. It’s covered with hideous suns wearing sunglasses and the horrible, synthetic fabric barely stretches over my stomach.
Veering must really have something on Mom. Montana is cold as all fuck. I’m not talking about “tongue stuck to a pole” kind of cold. I mean so cold you wish your toes would fall off so you won’t have to feel them anymore.
I’m surprised a few hours later when the car service pulls up in front of the Travelodge. Mom thinks hotels with fewer than five stars belong in third world countries.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I have the whole thing all worked out. Tomorrow Lois says we’ll wrap the shoot by two. And they have a wonderful spa up at the lodge. I’ve got us booked for hot rock pedicures.”
She looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to get out of the car.
“We’re staying here?” I ask, trying to make some kind of sense of what’s happening.
She pats my arm. “Don’t worry. I had Cassidy make the reservation. It’s all paid for. They should have my credit card.”
“You’re leaving me here? By myself?” I ask.
She turns to the window. “Well...I got the magazine to pay for your airfare but...um...they wouldn’t give me another room at the lodge,” she says. “Budget cuts.”
Of course Mom wouldn’t dip into her own bank account so I can get a nice room too. “Why can’t I just stay with you?” The taste of the burrito I ate for lunch is rising in my throat.
She pauses.
“Chad’s coming and...”
“Fine.” I get out of the Lincoln Town Car and slam the door behind me. The driver scurries out of the front. He drops my suitcase on the ground in front of the sparse gray motel office.
Mom rolls down the window. “The lodge is about fifteen minutes from here. I’ll call you when I’m on my way in the morning.”
They don’t have a reservation for me in the office. I spend the next two hours waiting for Mom’s frazzled assistant, Cassidy, to show up with a credit card.
“So sorry, Cookie... I was supposed to call...but Bruce asked me to pull all these comps from your mom’s old books...and...” She gives the Norman Bates clone at the counter Mom’s credit card as she rattles off a long list of random jobs she’s been assigned.
She frowns at me. “I feel terrible leaving you here,” she says. “I’d invite you to crash with me but I’ve already got the makeup girls.” Then she’s gone in a flash of print leggings and Uggs.
“Is there anything to eat around here?” I ask Norman.
He shrugs. “Cattleman’s is up the road. Maybe half a mile. Vending machine near the laundry room.”
I rifle through the content of my purse. I’ve got my tips from Donutville. Seven bucks.
Because Grandma came home from her hair appointment early, I feast on Doritos, Twinkies and Diet Coke. The room’s TV gets four channels.
The next morning, Mom doesn’t call. I check out and walk to town. There’s a gas station, a casino and a cute little car wash. Cassidy picks me up in front of the Travelodge around two.
It’s snowing in Whitefish. The town is somehow wholesome, with evergreen garland strung through the streets and silver bells hanging from lampposts. White powder dusts the 1930s storefronts. It’s the kind of place that should be on a postcard with the words Wish You Were Here.
Mom’s tucked away in the corner of the Ace Hardware. “They let us use this place for hair and makeup. We couldn’t get trailers,” Cassidy explains. “Bruce was going bananas at the thought they’d be in the shot.”
A hairstylist hovers over Mom, twisting her blond hair onto large Velcro rollers. “Oh, Cookie,” Mom says without glancing up from her phone. “We’re behind schedule. There are problems. With the snow and the light and people walking up the street. But don’t worry, Cassidy changed our appointments to...”
I spot Chad Tate surrounded by cowboys in jeans and Tony Lamas. He mimics throwing an invisible football. As he completes his imaginary pass, the crowd breaks out into cheers and hoots of laughter.
Oh sure. Having a washed-up, all-star quarterback as a stepdad is great. If you don’t mind the fact that’s he’s dumber than a bag of hammers and wishes I’d crawl off and die in a hole.
“I’m going home,” I say.
“Back to the hotel?” Mom corrects.
“Checkout at the motel was at ten. I’m going home.”
For the first time she takes a look at me. “Would you mind getting me a bottle of water?” she asks the hairstylist.
“Cookie,” Mom says the instant the hairstylist is out of earshot. “I can’t control the weather or the position of the sun. But I promise...”
My empty stomach grumbles. I spot the craft service table in one corner, but it has already been ravaged by the breakfast and lunch crowds. It now holds one lonely bagel and a half-empty jar of Snapple.
“I’m tired and I want to go home,” I say.
“I’m sure you’re dying to turn this into a referendum on how horrible your life is,” she begins, “but...”
“You’re busy and this was a mistake.”
“I’m working,” Mom says. “Someone has to. What do you think your dad’s mercy missions pay? I’m supporting five people.”
I push the thought of Dad out of my mind and focus my anger on what’s in front of me. “Well, maybe the child support checks are getting lost in the mail. Grandma thinks you’re dumping all your money into Chad’s sports bar. This week she’s making two holiday formal dresses to pay the water bill,” I say.
“It’s normal for restaurants to lose money during the first five years,” Mom says, pressing her lips into a thin, white line. “And whether you like it or not, I’m still the parent here. I’m sorry to inform you that you can’t just announce your plan to leave the state.”
“Let’s go and ask Chad,” I suggest. “I’m sure he’s thrilled I’m here.”
“You know, it hurts that my husband and my daughter are enemies,” Mom says.
“Right back atcha,” I say and walk away.
“Cookie, don’t you dare think you can—”
A tiny bell rings as the shop door slams behind me.
Cassidy runs out to catch me. Bluish black circles have formed under her eyes.
“There’s a coffee shop right around the corner. Your mom says to wait until—” She breaks off with a huff.
Behind her the wiry photographic genius Bruce Richardson leans over the top step of a tall ladder. “Cammie! We’ve got light for maybe another thirty minutes. Get Leslie out here stat. And clear this street. The last thing I need is that fat ass in my shot!”
Cassidy eyes Richardson with the crazed expression of someone on the verge of totally losing it. “It’s Cassidy,” she mutters under her breath.
But we exchange glances and she chews her lower lip. We both know I’m the fat ass Richardson means.
“Please. Wait here, Cookie,” she tells me, and she disappears into the hardware store. I know she feels bad. For me.
But I don’t want her sympathy.
And I don’t want to be in fucking Whitefish, Montana.
“Cookie. Perfect name for that girl. The jokes almost write themselves,” Richardson says as I walk toward the coffee shop.