"My ball game is really important," I insisted, pride flooding into my spine. She ignored me and rifled through the clothes hanging in my closet.
"I want something with color, and yet I want to make a simple statement of your beauty."
"I'm not beautiful," I muttered, mostly to myself.
She heard me, though, and whipped around. "Stop that! 1 don't want to hear that anymore. I told you, if you tell yourself you're not beautiful, you won't be. Attitude comes through. Why have I been working so hard with you, training you on how to sit, to walk, to talk, to hold your head, even to turn your eyes, if I didn't believe you were beautiful? Pictures don't lie, either, so you had better change your attitude before you go downstairs. I want to see that
effervescence, life, youth, your eyes radiating with confidence. Stop staring at me!" she yelled. "Get your hair brushed and your makeup done!"
"Okay," I said.
"Don't say okay. Say yes. Don't you remember what I told you? Okay is too .. . inferior," she declared for lack of another term.
She pulled out what she wanted me to wear and then found my new bathing suit.
"The photographer has arrived. He's a highly regarded professional. He's setting up in the atrium right now, discuss with him what you should wear first and then return. y the time I do, you should be ready to put on your dress. Understand?" she demanded.
"Yes, but if we do finish in time, can I go to the victory party? Please?"
"We'll see," she said, and stormed out of the room. I gazed at the clock. The team members and their families were just starting to arrive at Lisa's, and I was trapped at home. My only hope was to cooperate and get it done as fast as possible.
I was ready when Pamela returned. She told me to put on the light blue dress with the V-neck collar. She made sure my padded bra embellished my small bosom and then brought me a thin string of her own pearls to wear. After I was dressed, she stood me in front of the mirror and fixed my hair.
"You look flushed. I knew this would happen. I knew you would get too much sun out on that ball field and ruin your complexion," she said, and made me sit while she adjusted my makeup until she was satisfied It took almost a half hour.
"When is Peter coming home?" I asked on the way down.
"I don't remember," she said. "Later," she muttered. I was hoping he would arrive before the photo shoot ended and would agree to take me to the party.
The photographer was a pleasant young man with dark curly hair. His name was William Daniels. From the way Pamela had raved about him, I expected someone much older and more experienced. When William began, however, I saw that he really knew what he was doing. Every time Pamela made a suggestion, he calmly pointed out why it wouldn't work, why the lighting would be wrong, why my profile wouldn't be as complimented, or why the backdrop would lose its value.
William sensed how tense and unhappy I was immediately and did what he could to make me relax.
"Don't fight it," he whispered while he was adjusting my posture. "We'll get finished faster if you relax and just let it happen?'
He was right, of course, and I stopped wishing and hoping it would be over.
"Great, good. That's it," he kept saying. Pamela relaxed more, too.
I hurried upstairs to change my dress, but when I returned, Pamela didn't like the way my hair had lost its shape and made William wait while she brushed it again until it satisfied her.
We had been working nearly an hour and a half. I knew the party was in full swing at Lisa's by now, and I imagined they were all wondering when I would arrive. Heather was probably telling them that I wanted to make a special entrance and was being late deliberately. That was something she would do.
Pamela had even more problems with my bathing suit picture. As soon as I put on the suit, she groaned.
"Can't you stop those muscles from popping out in your legs?"
"I'm not doing anything," I said,
"Is there anything you can do?" she asked William
He studied me a moment, adjusted my stance, and shook his head. "She's got a great little body, Mrs. Thompson. I don't see why you want to hide it."
"They'll think she's one of those women bodybuilders or something. Who wants an Amazon to be Miss America?" she snapped. "Relax your arms," she told me.
I tried to stand as loosely as I could, but nothing I did satisfied her.
"They'll hate this shot," she muttered.