The Look Read Online Free PDF Page B

about curing the disease. A ninety percent success rate is great, of course. It’s an A in pretty much any subject. But I have a math exam coming up and I’m fairly sure that if you take ninety percent away from a hundred percent, it still means that ten percentof people don’t necessarily get cured. What happens to them? However, Dad has already got his head buried in Good Housekeeping again. He’s not avoiding me exactly, but I can tell he’s not ready to talk. The thought might have occurred to him, too.
    Instead, I pick up the abandoned Marie Claire from beside Ava’s old seat and flick through it. It contains well over a hundred pages of perfect, impossible bodies in bikinis and high-heeled shoes. Whoopee. But I need distractions. Any distractions. So I decide to read my way through it, page by page, until Mum and Ava get back, or until my brain melts — whichever comes first.
    There are a remarkable number of lipstick ads in Marie Claire . More than you’d think possible. And foundation ads. And perfume ads. And handbag ads. I’m starting to wonder how I’ve got through fifteen years of my life without owning a proper lipstick (I wear gloss if I remember; usually I don’t), or foundation, or perfume (I borrow Mum’s or Ava’s, when I can get away with it), or a handbag. Yes, I really don’t own a bag. I have a small canvas backpack that works perfectly well. Or at least I thought it did. Maybe I should own one handbag. I’m starting to feel I’m letting the handbag industry down.
    Mum and Ava still aren’t back. I plow on.
    There’s an article on “how to get a beach body.” Another on whether bikinis or one-piece swimsuits are more flattering. And a very long piece on some aging blonde woman going through her walk-in closet of designer outfits, explaining which ones are special to her and why. I bet she owns a lot of handbags and not a single canvas backpack.
    “What are you reading?” Dad asks me.
    I look up. “Oh, this thing about some woman with a lot of clothes.”
    “Why?”
    “Why what?”
    “Why does she have a lot of clothes?”
    This is a fair question, especially from a man who lives in the same three shirts and two pairs of trousers. I’m not sure of the answer, though, so I go back to the beginning of the article and read the opening blurb more carefully: “My love affair with fashion — Cassandra Spoke, founder of Model City, gives us an intimate tour of an über-agent’s über-wardrobe.”
    There’s a picture of Cassandra Spoke in her office. She has piercing blue eyes, tanned skin, and silky blonde hair, perfectly parted in the middle. She’s wearing a black silk dress and very high heels. Behind her is the logo that represents her über-agency. It’s a jagged black M inside a pale blue circle. The circle matches the color of her eyes, and is actually a C , for “City.”
    Oh.
    This logo, I’m sure, is the same as the one on the card that Simon the scammer gave me on Carnaby Street.
    Except … maybe he wasn’t.
    “Ted, are you OK?” Dad asks, frowning.
    I nod dumbly and try to ignore the increasingly familiar sound of buzzing in my ears.
    I think I got scouted by a legitimate model agency, owned by a fashion star. And my sister’s having blood tests to see why her neck’s got cancer. It feels as though the world has turned upside down. I’m not sure I’m ready for this.

T he rest of the weekend goes by in a blur of phone calls, missed meals, forgotten homework, and sleepless nights. Back at school on Monday, Daisy helps me try to adjust to the news.
    “Why don’t we go outside?” she says at first break. “It’s such a nice day. We could sit on the grassy knoll.”
    The grassy knoll is part of the landscaping outside the school’s new cafeteria. I follow her out there to chat. Normally we sit by ourselves, but today we’re constantly interrupted by a stream of gorgeous male students, who suddenly all want to talk to me. Me! Mind you, I quickly come back