Diary of an Ugly Duckling Read online

  just say “They’ll never pick you,” and tell me to stick to

  my diet. She’s right: They’ll never pick me, I’m sure of

  it . . . but I don’t need to hear her say it.

  When they clear up this stuff with Haines at work,

  I’m going to change my shift to graveyard. I’d rather

  give up sleep than have to look at Bradshaw again.

  Wouldn’t it be amazing if they did pick me? I’d ask

  them to make me look just like you!

  Be careful out there,

  Audra

  PART TWO

  Light, Bright and Beautiful

  Chapter 7

  Thursday, May 11

  Petra,

  The news reports we’ve been getting are kinda scary.

  Are you sure you two are alright? Kiana hasn’t had a

  note from Michael in a long time—not since his unit

  entered Basra. It’s hard to reassure her that her

  Daddy’s okay when there’s no word. She’s doing okay

  though. Don’t worry, for all our differences, Ma and

  I agree on our love for her.

  Still no word from Ugly Duckling . . . Remember I

  told you they called? They said they’d call back, but I

  haven’t heard a thing. If the show comes on in the Fall

  and I’m not on it, I guess that means “no!”

  Be careful out there,

  Audra

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  Karyn Langhorne

  “Audra, it’s Shamiyah Thomas again, from the

  Ugly Duckling show?”

  The young woman spoke fast, her voice holding a

  hopeful edge as though she expected Audra’s im-

  mediate recognition. “We spoke last week about

  your tape?”

  “Yes, I remember,” Audra said, her own tones

  coming to immediate attention. “But you said there

  were problems—”

  “Problems aplenty, girl,” the young woman said.

  Audra pictured her: some energetic twentysome-

  thing, probably as cute as she was perky. She talked

  fast, in the crisp college tones of a Seven Sisters edu-

  cation, but there was enough ethnic in her voice for

  Audra to believe this child might actually be black—

  and not just playing black for TV. Besides, Audra

  suspected there weren’t very many white women

  named Shamiyah in the world. “Is this a good

  time?”

  “Sure,” Audra said. “But I’ll be getting on the sub-

  way in about five minutes—”

  “Won’t take that long. Listen, we don’t normally

  do this, but the show wants to fly you out. You

  haven’t been selected yet, understand, but the doc-

  tors want to meet you in person. To assess you as a

  candidate for plastic surgery. See, I been lobbying

  that we have at least one sister on this show—to

  keep the finale from looking like Barbie dolls on pa-

  rade, you know what I’m sayin’?” She chuckled,

  sounding worldly and girlish all at once. “But the

  docs keep saying there’s all these additional issues

  with black skin and plastic surgery. Make it sound

  like it’s a plague or something.” Shamiyah’s voice

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  89

  reached a level of good-humored indignance. “Now

  what kind of signal is that sending in this messed-

  up, racist, sexist culture of ours, I ask you?”

  Audra hesitated, not sure at all what the appropri-

  ate response to that question might be. In the end,

  she decided on diplomacy and changed the subject.

  “You want me to come out to Los Angeles? When?”

  “Tonight,” Shamiyah said. “Tomorrow at the lat-

  est. We’ve got decisions to make here. This show’s

  supposed to air during November sweeps. You re-

  member the rules—we need at least three months

  for the surgeries and healing time. Not to mention

  the weight loss and body sculpting.” She lowered

  her voice conspiratorially. “I’ve heard they think

  you should drop about eighty pounds. And there’s a

  lot of doubt you’d be able to lose that much in the

  time we’ve got—”

  “I’ve lost about twenty since I sent the tape,” Au-

  dra muttered. “Maybe twenty-five. I haven’t had an

  Oreo in—”

  “You’ve lost twenty-five pounds! That’s great!”

  Audra could hear the girl scribbling down the infor-

  mation. “That could make a big difference, Audra. A

  big difference around here. See, I’ve got to tell you.

  We all love the tape you sent. So funny. The way you

  did all those imitations of old movie stars—a real

  smart way to play to the Hollywood crowd. You’re

  such a character!”

  “Yeah, well. We ugly girls strive for character,”

  Audra quipped again, not entirely joking, but

  Shamiyah laughed like she was an audience of one

  in a tawdry comedy club.

  “See? That’s exactly the kind of stuff I’m talking

  90

  Karyn Langhorne

  about. You’d be a hoot on the show. Just a hoot. And

  I love that you’ve got a serious side, too. The story

  about what the girl said to you, about not needing

  any advice from any ugly woman—Oh!” Shamiyah

  inhaled dramatically. “So heartbreaking! Did that

  really happen . . . or do you just have the ear for the

  kinds of stories people want to hear?”

  Before Audra had decided whether to admit to

  the truth of that encounter, Shamiyah continued

  with, “It doesn’t matter either way. It would work

  great on the show. Really moving. Really . . .” she

  paused, searching for the word to get the italics that

  were so much a part of her manner of speech. She

  found it in: “emotional. I’ve got to tell you, Audra.

  You’re the definite front-runner for the African-

  American spot on the show. I mean, we just love

  your story. The woman wearing the top you were

  too fat to squeeze into at the party. The stuff about

  your pants ripping on the job in front of the hottie

  you had a crush on—” she enthused onward, pluck-

  ing the most painful events of Audra’s life with del-

  icate enthusiasm. “It just boils down to whether the

  docs think they can do a dramatic job on you.” She

  paused just long enough to inhale, then barreled on

  with, “So, if we make all the arrangements, can you

  catch the last flight out of LaGuardia tonight? I’ll set

  up all your meetings for tomorrow and we’ll put you

  on a plane back to New York tomorrow night. Can

  you do it?”

  “What do you mean you’re going to California?”

  Edith said slowly. She’d already slipped off her

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  91

  shoes and dug into the plate of beef noodle casserole

  Audra had left for her. “You don’t know anybody in

  California—”

  “You don’t know who I know,” Audra told her.

  “Besides, I’m not asking for your permission. I’m a

  grown woman. I’m telling you: I’m going to Califor-

  nia and we need to work out how we’re going to

  take care of
Kiana while I’m gone.”

  Edith quirked an eyebrow at her and frowned.

  They weren’t getting along any better, but at least

  things were no longer alternating between yelling

  and screaming and frosty silence.

  “I suppose I can ask the Quintanas to watch her

  until I get home from the salon,” she muttered, her

  eyes still fixed dubiously on Audra. “How long you

  gonna be gone?”

  “Call them.” Audra waved the phone under her

  mother’s nose and glanced at her watch again.

  “What’s the hurry? What’s going on?” She sur-

  veyed Audra. “You’re not running out to Holly-

  wood for some old-time movie fantasy bullshit, are

  you?”

  “No, Ma—”

  Edith peered at her, taking in her faded sweats and

  comfortably ripped T-shirt before asking, “You ain’t

  going out there to meet a man, are you? You’re on the

  computer all the time these days. You meet someone

  on the Internet? Is he out in California? Because if

  that’s what’s going on, you need to watch yourself.

  Just because you lost a few pounds doesn’t mean

  you’re some Hollywood diva, ready to handle your-

  self around some man you’ve never even met—”

  92

  Karyn Langhorne

  Audra slammed the phone back down and

  whirled on her. “You were always nagging on me to

  lose some weight. Then when I lose some, you ac-

  cuse me of being full of myself?” Audra rolled her

  eyes. “What do you want from me? Make up your

  mind, Ma!”

  Edith frowned. “Well, sure, the weight loss looks

  good, but—you know what I’m saying.” She hesi-

  tated. “After that fiasco with that guy from your job

  I’d think you’d learn your lessons about pinning

  your hopes on men you hardly know.” She crinkled

  her nose into her forehead with the effort of mem-

  ory. “What was his name? Art something—”

  Audra stiffened. She had barely seen Art Bradshaw

  since that night, now that she’d been reassigned to

  another shift. He hadn’t made any efforts to get in

  touch, either.

  Which was just fine, Audra told herself. One less

  distraction. And thinking about his daughter, Es-

  meralda Prince and that awful night at that cavelike

  bar made it easy to wolf down lettuce leaves and

  fruit instead of cookies.

  “This has nothing to do with Art Bradshaw,” she

  told her mother.

  “I knew it!” Edith proclaimed, nodding vehe-

  mently. “Some Internet guy—”

  Audra shook her head. “No guys, Internet or oth-

  erwise. I’ve sworn off.”

  “Then why you gotta go to California?”

  Audra gave a noncommittal shrug that she knew

  would drive the older woman absolutely crazy.

  “You got your secrets . . . I got mine.” She picked up

  the phone again. “Now, if you don’t mind, please

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  93

  dial the number. I’m leaving right now. There’s a cab

  waiting for me downstairs.”

  Which was how Audra ended up on a late flight

  from LaGuardia to LAX, ensconced in a first-class

  seat with only her little black bag and a stack of

  fashion magazines as companions. Inside the bag

  were a change of panties and a toothbrush.

  Audra pushed any thoughts of Art Bradshaw or

  her mother to the back of her mind and focused on

  the magazines in front of her with the diligence of a

  law student preparing for the bar exam. Shamiyah

  had given her an assignment—to find the image or

  collection of images that would make up her ideal

  face and body for final “Reveal” . . . and she was de-

  termined to show the folks at Ugly Duckling exactly

  what kind of diligence they’d get if they picked one

  Audra Marks for their television show.

  The plane touched down only minutes before

  midnight. A man in a black, liveried car service uni-

  form and holding a small sign bearing the words

  a. marks stood waiting at attention as though ex-

  pecting royalty.

  “That’s me,” Audra said stepping up to him. “I’m

  Audra Marks.”

  The thin man looked her up and down, from her

  short, scraggly hairdo to her rumpled black pants as

  though he considered her highly unlikely in every

  aspect of the word. Audra stored up the look,

  adding it to the stockpile of images that was her

  daily fuel and waited for him to get himself together.

  “Your luggage?” He asked in a voice like the ob-

  sequious servants in Audra’s ancient movies. Audra

  94

  Karyn Langhorne

  couldn’t help but wonder if he spent hours listening

  to himself on a tape recorder to get that sound.

  “This is it,” Audra patted her little black duffel.

  “I’m all set. I mean—” She attempted a jovial smile

  just to see if this little man would answer it with a

  smile of his own. “Hey, it’s just one night, right?”

  “Of course,” he agreed blankly, reaching for the

  black duffel.

  “That’s okay. I got it,” Audra told him, tugging

  the thing just out of his reach.

  Once again the thin man looked her over with an

  expression of indifference mixed with disapproval.

  Apparently, he preferred women to arrive with a full

  set of luggage for him to carry and a toy poodle yap-

  ping in a handbag. But all he said was, “Very well,

  madam. Follow me, please.”

  It was after midnight Los Angeles time and even

  later in Audra’s mind when they drove off the

  grounds of the sprawling airport and hit one of the

  city’s many freeways. Grateful not to have to navi-

  gate her way to the hotel on her own, Audra sank

  back in the dark leather seat of the car and closed

  her eyes. Perhaps tomorrow she’d have a few min-

  utes to herself to see something of the sights of L.A.,

  but for now she wanted nothing more than to lay

  her head on a soft pillow somewhere and sleep.

  When at last they pulled into the circular drive of

  the hotel, Audra understood the driver’s snarky at-

  titude toward her rumpled clothing and battered

  black satchel.

  “Oh shit,” she muttered as the driver hopped out

  DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

  95

  and hurried around the car to open her door with

  a bow.

  “Someone will pick you up promptly at nine a.m.

  to take you to the studio, madam,” he said in a tone

  that made it perfectly clear that that someone would

  not be himself. “As you have no luggage, madam,

  I’ll just say goodnight and trust the hotel staff to see

  to your remaining needs.” And he nodded with a fi-

  nality Audra could not misunderstand: Get out of

  the car, you’re here.

  Audra knew instantly where “here” was.

  Most people would have recognized it: It was one

  of the most famous h
otels in Beverly Hills, pictured

  on television shows and movies as frequently as the

  Kodak Theatre or the famous Hollywood sign. It

  was an imposing Spanish-style structure with or-

  nate frescoes and a sense of palatial opulence. Audra

  could almost see the ghosts of stars of ages past—

  could almost hear the sounds of today’s hottest

  young actors cavorting within its walls.

  “Oh shit,” Audra whispered again, feeling like

  she’d landed in another world—a world to which

  she could never belong. “Oh shit.”

  She stepped away from the vehicle, forcing her-

  self to close her mouth so that she wouldn’t look

  even more “bumpkin” than she felt. Good thing, be-

  cause an instant later an elaborately uniformed

  doorman stepped into the space between herself

  and the entrance, a wide smile on his face as he

  lifted the strap of Audra’s black satchel off her

  shoulder as though he handled bags of its exquisite

  quality all the time.

  96

  Karyn Langhorne

  “Welcome to Beverly Hills,” he said. “Checking

  in?”

  Audra turned back to the driver behind her, ready

  to question the accuracy of his choice of destination.

  But the man was already gone, the black car turning

  in the cobbled driveway and disappearing back

  down into the street. Automatically, Audra thought

  of her credit-card balance, wondering if there was

  enough on the thing for just one night in a hotel that

  was probably as swank on the inside as it looked on

  the outside. Hopefully, when Shamiyah said she’d

  “take care of the arrangements,” she meant more

  than the airfare.

  The doorman was waiting.

  “I’ll guess we’ll find out if I’m checking in in a sec-

  ond,” she quipped to the valet.

  He laughed like his tip depended on it and led her

  inside.

  Chapter 8

  Friday, May 12

  Dear Petra,

  Had to log on quickly to tell you how fab this hotel is!

  Girl, it’s beyond plush. It’s like living a moment out of

  that VH1 show, The Fabulous Life of . . .

  Still not entirely sure why I’m here, but I guess I’ll

  find out in a few minutes. There’s a car on the way to

  take me to meet with the Ugly Duckling people.

  I’ll write more later.

  Be careful out there,

  Audra

  “Audra! So nice to finally meet you! Though I

  feel like I already know you, from all our

  phone conversations and of course, that fabulous