Page 7 - Second Helpings - Modelland, Chapters 1 + 2

Episode Date: September 4, 2026

No one can ever take it from Tyra Cronenberg Banks that she DID write this.  If you can't wait to find out what happens to Tookie De La Crème and the gang after these first two chapters, check out the Patreon for the rest! Patreon.com/Page7Podcast Subscribe to SiriusXM Podcasts+ to listen to new episodes of Page 7 ad-free.Start a free trial now on Apple Podcasts or by visiting siriusxm.com/podcastsplus. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

I'm just going to say right out the gate, you already clicked on this episode, which means you're my kind of person. Or it means that you were just listening to the previous episode and then this episode started playing. Regardless, I want to just say, up top, you are brave for joining us here to start the journey of Tyra Banks' model land. Now, if you're a coming here just essentially asking, wait, Tyra Banks wrote a book, we are here to unfortunately remind you that, yes, Tyra Banks wrote a book. Now, apparently it was over like the beginning of the 2000s, right? This is during a time where America's next top model is becoming really big. She's kind of becoming this media mogul. She's going from model into media mogul.

And I really think that she thought she was going to be Oprah. I really think she had huge dreams for what she was going to be. I'm not going to get into like the mental health aspects of what's going on with Tyra. If you were wondering what kind of mental health aspects she's struggling with, might I say read Model Land? because wow. Now, while she claims to have written this book, and don't get me wrong, as someone who has read it, it does make sense that she wrote it.

But she must have had help at some point, but it also makes extra sense that she wrote it over many years. I'm hoping that's the reason why it makes no sense. She also definitely wrote this book to set it up because she thought this was going to be the beginning of a huge series. So also, a lot of the things that she lays down never come to fruition. But you'd be like, then why are you telling us to listen to you read this book? It's because it truly is.

So when I first started Jackie's Book Club over on the Patreon, Modeland was the first one I did. So I was just doing it as an audiobook. So this is not like the usual Jackie's book club where I have my sidebars where, no, this is me genuinely coming up with the voices for characters like the protagonist, Tuki de la Crem. Yes, if you were wondering also, if you're like, what is this about at all? Well, obviously, it's about modeling. but it's almost as if like America's next top model meets like a Harry Potter without the transphobia meets like a Hunger Games with like a Willy Wonka attached but then there's also like body horror and also a lot of body horror that I don't know if she meant to be body horror but that just seem

truly horrifying to read about now so the protagonist is tookie de la crem she's a 15 year old girl who considers herself so ugly and she's like basically invisible. She calls herself a forget a girl and her family reinforces this, right? Her younger sister's name is Miracle. Also, by the way, if you're wondering if Miracle is spelled M-Y-R-R-A-C-L-E, you would be correct. And she is the beautiful one. She's the special one and Tookie is ignored. But then, so the world.

is called METopia. And modeling is not just a career here, all right? It's the center of civilization, okay? And at the top of the modeling hierarchy are the intoxibela's. There are seven supermodels chosen every year by model land, which is like essentially a magic university teaching people how to become models. guys, that's just like barely scratching the surface of what goes on with this, which is why I wanted to encourage you guys to listen to me read it.

That's why I'm popping the first two chapters in here for you guys to check out today. And if you're intrigued and if you don't want to spend money on Model Land, and I understand completely, you can head on over to patreon.com slash page 7 podcast, where I do read the whole thing. You just look under the collections. We have all the model land there for you. Because sure, you could listen to the big girl audio book for this, but you would really,

you'd miss out on all the voices than I do. God, even just doing tookies, no, that was Miracle's voice. In doing Miracle's voice, God, their mother's name is Creamy. Oh, Creamy. I, it's, it's disgusting in ways that I just really didn't expect. But I think it's really important for you to remember that while she was writing this, Tyra Banks truly thought she was about to become the author of a groundbreaking series. Like she had a vision of three books for this.

And then she thought she was going to become a film producer and then start directing and making the films. And if you, oh God, I do love this line, this, this review, Tyra tried to launch the Marvel Cinematic Universe of Modeling. And she really did. She thought that this was going to be it. And in a time period when celebrities were all, like a lot of celebrities were writing books in the early 2000s and especially fiction books. And some of them are hitters. and a lot of them are just stinkers, but this one I've thought about ever since. And I hope that you think about it too, because there are so many aspects. I don't want to give it all away here.

So that's why let me just let the first two chapters do the talking for you. Oh my God, I'm just remembering the whole plot line that her father essentially has like the plot of Robin from Batman. You know, the Acrobat family? Yeah. Guys, I hope that this gets you to listen to the rest of the book, but also I'm about to reread it as well. So just feel me along with your journey. I'm right there alongside you because I read this book for Jackie's first book club in 2020.

And wow, I've been thinking about it ever since. So please tuck in to the beginning. but don't forget that you can't leave it hanging although I don't want to lie to you guys the whole book ends with hanging because again she thought that this was going to be the first of three oh god and this is on top of the full immersive model land experience that tyra banks released just a couple like just some years ago during like after the pandemic times that it was here in Santa Monica and not that I'm in Santa Monica, but like in SoCal. And even I couldn't get myself to do it. And I have read the book and loved how bad shit it was because it was so

expensive to and every, all of the reviews were like, do not. Do not waste your money. And now apparently it just sits dormant in Santa Monica. But you know, apparently the people that worked at Model Land were very nice and having a lot of fun with the experience. so I'm just giving some love out to them. But for now, guys, yes, it is time. Enjoy the first two chapters of Model Land. But then pop on over to the page 7 Patreon. Let me know what you think because, uh, hi, I gotta know if you're going to keep going.

Please, enjoy. Model Land by Tyra Banks. To Ma and Daddy. Thank you for being absolutely, positively, nothing like Mr. and Mrs. Dela Crem. You want to be there. You know you do. Don't lie, darling. It's okay. I know what you're thinking when you look up at that splendorous place atop the mountain.

I know what fills you, spurs you on, fuels your dreams. You're obsessed with being chosen. Everyone is. The land you thirst for has loomed at the top of the mountain in Meotopia for as long as you can remember. But for most of the year, it's covered in fog. It's color changing with each passing day, as if it's a gargantuan mood ring. You begin your morning staring at the fog, longing for the fateful evening when it will turn a golden yellow, And then, finally, like a push-up brassiere, lift.

Oh, how you long for that moment, with baited fresh breath, that is. For it signifies that the luminescent eye will soon blaze in the sky, bathing the whole world in gold, touching every one of its inhabitants, including you. But darling, it is no ordinary golden light. Once it tickles you, you are suddenly transported. You hear the softness of sighs or faintest of giggles in your ear, even if you're standing alone. The once stale air around you becomes both sweet and tart,

making your nose tingle and sending a charge of excitement through your brain. The finest silk, the softest velveteen, or the supplest suede will brush your skin, but whatever you thought was touching you is nowhere to be seen. Basking in the light is such a naughty tease, like getting a single lick of the most delicious butterpacon gelato you've ever tasted. It inflames your obsession, increasing your desire a hundredfold. You lust to go to this land to become one of the only famous people in the world. You ache to be a seven, but very few ever get the chance. Nevertheless, you and every young girl in the world buy for an opportunity on the day of discovery,

which is grander than every global holiday combined. Making the delirium even more intense, the land sends seven talism. called smises into the world. What an arcane word! Who thought of such a thing? These smises, which boost your odds of being chosen by 91% are propelled through the world's waterways. Naturally, the week before the day of discovery,

bathing, showering, pool use, and even sewer diving increase, threatening a drought. Chance meetings erupt into 50, Mr. Cicuffs on occasion. Every girl wants to find a smize, darling, but not nearly as much as you do. You ignore the slim odds and disregard the warnings you've heard since birth, like how it's easier to grow three inches in a month than it is to score a spot in the newest class.

You turn a deaf ear to the cautionary tales whispered in your hometown and throughout Metopia, and dingy alleys and side streets of pitter-patter, during shift changes in Chevera, and on assembly lines of Peppertown factories. Like the rumor that the school often takes inhumane and irreversible disciplinary action, or that certain disposable civilian girls are brought to the land to be tortured and then killed,

used as human sacrifices for ungodly experiments and animalistic rituals. It's obvious why they torture them, the gossip mongers whisper. Those in the land bathe in civilian blood to maintain their breathtaking beauty. Goodness, great shoes! A literal bloodbath, darling. That crimson Alexa must leave a nasty ring around the tub. And then there's the reality of the pilgrim plague.

A form of sadness meets madness. that compels unselected hopefuls to embark dadless on an unauthorized pilgrimage to the land. It's a sickness that comes with a quickness and afflicts the most determined and desperate. And the trek through the dangerous diabolical divide always ends in dismembering death. Ouch. As the day of discovery dawns, however, you and every young girl around the day of the day of discovery dawns, however, you and every young girl around the world tune out the horrifying negatives and concentrate on the glitzy, gaudy, dream come true, positive.

You dredge up every ounce of self-confidence from deep within. This is my year, you say to yourself, and so does every other girl. They'll choose me for sure. Every girl feels the same. except one. Tuki de la Crem One. Tuuki.

Have you ever seen her? The girl whose face not even the meanest person you know would describe as yuck, but who you'd never in a million, no, a trillion years, describe as alluring either. The girl whose eyes are three centimeters too far apart, and whose mouth is four centimeters too wide. Not that you'd break out a ruler, but when you look at her, it's enough to make you say that something is definitely off.

Come on now, you've seen her. She's the girl whose hair has multiple personality disorder and can't decide if it's supposed to be quasi-curly, silky, straight, frantic frizzy, or wet and wavy, or maybe a power to the people fro. The girl whose body is a contradiction of itself, a slightly hunched back from years of poor posture one must presume, feet the size of snow shoes, and stick figure arms and legs so fragile, you think you hear them screaming, feed me an entire grilled cow now. The girl with a humongous punchbow-sized head,

with a forehead that goes on and on and on, making her look like the weight of her cradium will topple her over and break her into a thousand pieces. And not only is her clothing painfully mismatched, so are her eyes, darling. You heard me right. She is one green eye and one brown one. Have you ever seen Tuki de la Crem?

I bet you have. Maybe you've even met her. You just don't remember her. No one ever does. For as unusual looking as she was, Tuki was a forgetter girl, one of the most forgettable girls in the entire world. But maybe not. for long. Our tale begins on a Thursday afternoon, the most ordinary of ordinary afternoons,

a few days shy of the most unordinary day of the entire year. Tuki de la Crem was splayed on her back on the hallway floor of her school, the Bengal-Bauble and Beade Institute, B3 as it was commonly called. Her large mismatched eyes didn't blink as she stared at the stained ceiling. Her gang Angly legs shot out at odd angles, as though she'd fallen from a six-story building. Her enormous feet pointed straight up. An internal clock counted down the time in perfect cadence. T-minus six minutes and 49 seconds. 48, 47.

As Tuki waited, she lifted to her face a cold canister of whipped cream, inserting the nozzle straight into her mouth. She pressed the trigger that delivered the airy sweetness directly onto her tongue. A bit of cream accidentally dropped from her mouth and dripped from her chin to her neck. With each squirt, more and more of the cream fell to her snug, fitting, hand-me-up blue blouse, which had once been her younger sisters. Another squirt landed in her hair. She then licked her tiny baby fingers from thumb to pinky and prepared for the next.

squirt. How is Tuki able to lie in the middle of her school's hallway during class time, enjoying whipped cream from the can and not get herself into any trouble? Well, Tuki was the institute's best skipper. No one, not even the most cunning teachers, noticed she was gone when she skipped out of class way before most of her lessons ended. T-minus four minutes, 33 seconds. 32

31 As Tuckie stretched her legs The backs of her calves Touched the bitingly cold marble Making her shiver Most people would have found it uncomfortable But Tuckie was happy she felt something At least she was still alive and breathing

Sometimes Tuckie was so used to being a forget-a-girl That she thought she really was invisible A-minus five seconds, four, three, two. A loud but familiar clanging made Tuki jump. The school's bell was actually an old-time buzzer that had long ago signaled factory shift changes. In days gone by, before the institute had taken over the building, B3 had produced three things, bangles, bobbles, and beads. Once the bell stopped, a familiar rumbling made Tuki cringe.

An oily belch followed, sending a thick cloud of greenish smoke through the vents. A stench filled the air. It smelled like a mix of gasoline, mold, melted plastic and methane gas emanating from the bowels of the building. Excruciatingly loud school bells weren't the only relics left over from when B3 had been a factory. the administration had done very little in the way of renovation to convert the safety code deficient building into a proper institute of learning. The school let out belches and eruptions all day and leaked fumes from every crevice. Groaning, the students emerged from their classrooms. Arella Bertona wailed, fanning the odors from her face.

Nasty! Tatiana Sharon said, pressing a session. of dried flowers to her nose. The B-4 Institute tooted again, Jason Milano chortled, trotting out the school's oldest, tiredest but aptest joke. Everyone called the school B-4

for bile, barf, belches, and butt bombs. More doors were flung open and the sound of footsteps thundered through the halls. Tuckie quickly closed her eyes. She then peaked to see just how far the approaching mob was from her prone body. Nine feet away, she estimated.

The conversations of passerbyes began to wash over her. Tuki felt like a fly on the wall. Zerpisa says she's spending 50,000 on her prep, said an annoyed female voice over Tuki's head. Hag! What do you think the look will be at T-Dod this year? A girl with a forehead tattoo whined. I hope my tatted face will be in.

Don't hold your breath, Inky, a male voice answered. Another voice floated from the other side of the corridor. If they don't choose me, I don't know what I'm going to do with my life. I'll die if I end up working in a bell to buckle factory like my mom. I've been crying for a month straight. I hope my eyes aren't going to stay all puffy like this. Many of the conversations had to do with the big event that was taking place in two days, the day of discovery, which most people shortened to T-Dodd.

It was the grandest of holidays, and B-3 was even letting the students have Friday off this week to prepare, an absolute rarity. Not that Tuky really cared. Where do you think the rest of them will be this year? A girl with a nasal voice asked. I heard that a girl found one in a pot of boiling sweet potatoes and burned up her hands real bad trying to get it. Tuki shifted on the floor.

Now they were talking about smizes. Girls had been searching for the magical charms for days, fighting at water spigots, sloshing through sewers, splashing in the Peppertown pool, which everyone knew kids peed in. I found the pipe where the gunk water from the Shafira hospital dumps out, a hopeful girl whispered. No one is going to be looking for smizes there. As more people passed, as more girls chattered about T-Dodd, Tuki began to feel lonelier and lonelier. It was yet another day when no one, not a single person, looked down on the floor and cried, Oh, check out that girl down there!

All the students rushed past Tuki, like water in a stream flowing around a rock. Rubber sneakers almost crushed her fingers. Heavy boots nearly bumped her shins. A piece of paper fluttered out of someone's notebook and landed close to Tuky's left hand. The paper's owner, a dark-haired girl, bent down to snatch it, not even noticing that Tuki was there. Irrelevant, expendable, forgettable. All Tuckie wanted was for someone to notice her, anyone. Just a simple kick in the ribs or a sneaker's soul that squished her hand

or a textbook that slipped from a student's grip and fell on her large forehead. She wasn't picky. Spin, thud, spin, thud, spin, thud. Tuckie looked up at a spinning, spin. dervish approaching, taking in her long, thick, curly, wheat, blonde hair, her silver dollar-sized aqua eyes and her perfectly symmetrical face. It was as if Tuky's wish had come true. Sort of. For here was her sister, Miracle. Someone who did notice her. Except, well, Tuckie didn't really want her to. Spotting Tuckie sprawled.

on the floor, Miracle began to sing. You are not my d. She gave one spin for each word, making the hem of her blue dress flutter. It was a dress, Tuckie guessed, that would pass to her as a hand-me-up in a matter of days. Tuckie rolled her eyes at her sister's mispronunciation of DNA. Beyond her looks and fancy flights of footwork, what was most disturbing to Tuki about the Miracle, as Tuky's mother called her, was not that she was Tuki's younger sister. The most disturbing fact was that the miracle was distinctly, indisputably, flat-out, dense.

As dumb as a lobotomized turkey, and turkeys were said to raise their heads to the sky during rainstorms and drowned themselves. Oh, Tuki tried to give her sister the benefit of the doubt. Miracle had memorized every intricate dance step of the 22 verses of the Chavara shuffle after all. And at least she understood the concept of DNA, even if she got the pronunciation wrong. But in all honesty, Miracle wasn't the brightest tube of lipstick in the makeup caddy. Luckily, Miracle pirouetted out of sight almost immediately. problem gone, for now.

Tuki sighed and reached for a small, thick yellow book wedged under her lower back. It wasn't just any regular yellow, but the color of a taxi cab that had been freshly painted and spit polished. And it wasn't just any regular book, but a collection of letters Tuki had written to people she'd encountered throughout her life. Not that she would ever dare send them. She called this book T-Mail Jail. Tewy found it ironic that the book's initials, TMJ, also stood for an ailment that impaired a person's ability to open her mouth. The front cover displayed T-Kee's first name,

handwritten in beautiful calligraphy. The spine of T-Mail read, Don't Keep Out! The back cover urged, Invade My Privacy, please! If one was inclined to find a file, follow these instructions, the inside cover challenged, I dare you to turn the page. But no one dared, or more accurately, cared. As the crowd continued to move around her,

Tuki opened T-mail jail to a blank page. She closed her eyes, selected one of the dozens of colored pens tucked into the pocket of the book's back cover, and held it in front of her face. Blue, in her color code, was for the English language. Boring, Tuki thought. Tuki uncapped the pen, held the journal in the air over her head, and began to write to her only friend in the world. She had been missing for over six weeks now, and Tuckie feared she'd never see her again.

Dear Lizzie, it's date 39 of my great SPLD campaign, and everyone is still ignoring me. SPLD stood for silent protest by lying down. Tuki pronounced it, spilled. As an oblivious classmate almost whacked Tuki's head with a rusty fencing epa, Tuki licked the tip of her pen,

gripped it in her right hand, and continued to write. She wasn't a natural right-hander, but her mother had slapped her wrist so many times for writing with her left that Tuki had begrudgingly made the switch. It hurts, and it hurts that you can't be here, and I can't tell you this for real. It hurts, too, that you disappear for weeks, and I have no idea where you're gone.

Girl, you're my only friend. Can't you at least tell me where you've been? Anyway, everyone is caught up in the day of discovery happening this weekend, but even if they weren't caught up in all the hoopla of the coming event, they still wouldn't notice me. Perhaps I don't want them to notice me. I mean, this is spilled number 39. Why not go for the world record?

40 days of lying on this cold hallway floor, waiting for someone to speak to me, but no one's saying a word. 40 days of being invisible. Lizzie, there must be an association that honors achievements like this. I can hear my acceptance speech now. I'd like to thank the spilled academy. There is nothing more beautiful than a forget-a-girl being recognized by her own forget-a-peers,

and let's not forget my dear family. On second thought, let's. Miss you, girl. Hopefully, I'll see you today. Tuki. Over the eye in her name, Tuky added a tiny F-G for Forget a Girl. But before closing T-mail jail, She thumbed through its previous entries, admiring the rainbow of colors.

Every color represented a different language. Flamingo pink for Gawidon. Cabernet grape for Trey Joe Lee. Mandarin orange for Be jingle. And skyscraper gray for Chlorian, the language spoken in the distant land of Sands Color. Tuki had a knack for quickly picking up foreign languages, and wrote whole letter entries in them. By the age of 11, Tuki knew 28 languages.

Now, at 15, she spoke nearly every world tongue. The nagging truth, though, was that this incredible linguistic gift of Tukies seemed wasted. It was almost a cruel cosmic trick. Why give this ability to a girl with whom no one wanted to speak? The thundering crowd in the Bengal-Bobble and be. Bede Institute hallway started to thin. Tuki nervously smoothed out her shorts,

closed her T-mail jail, and straightened her body out of its position suggestive of traumatic injury, and then she heard the bow-legged footsteps she'd been waiting for. Step pause, step pause, step. Coming, her, way. There was only one person at B3 who had spoken to Tuki besides Miracle.

class president Theophilus love laces, the very step-paws, step-paws figure quickly approaching. It had been one year ago, almost to the day, But Tuky hadn't forgotten it. In truth, it was why she had invented the act of spilling in the first place. There were many letters in T-mail Jill written to Theophilus, all expressing unrequited admiration and affection. Tuckie longed to slip one into his locker, but she knew she never would. A year ago, Tuki had taken a real spill, tumbling down the narrow spiral staircase to the cafeteria. All she clearly remembered about that moment was one foot touching that first step and then both enormous feet flying into the air. She was falling, falling. There was the floor.

Boom. Tuki had landed so hard the world had gone black for a few minutes. Spots began to appear before her eyes. Bodies swept past her, but not one person tried to help. Tuki had just lain there while the day continued as usual for everyone else at the Bengal, Bobble, and Bede Institute. But then a figure in a pinstripe jacket had appeared. Tuckie's vision was still blurry, but she could make out a small round button on the figure's lapel.

Vote for love. Are you okay? Theophilus love laces stood above Tucci like a royal guardsman coming to the aid of his queen. The pin of his lapel was one of the good luck charms he passed out to B3 students in hopes of getting re-elected every school year. He'd never given one to Tuki, though. The noises in the cafeteria ceased to exist. Tuckie was groggy from her fall.

Her ears rang to the point of leaving her deaf, and her mouth felt like it had been anesthetized. But that didn't stop her from noticing his imperfectly perfect features. Sun-kissed, tightly curled hair, a left cheekbone that was sharper and more defined than the right, and sympathetic golden-brown eyes, the exact color of two salted caramels. Tuckie's favorite candy. He wore a caramel-colored suit of the finest fabric, an indication of his family's prestige. They were the wealthiest in all of Mitovia, and yet he didn't carry himself with an air of privilege or self-righteousness. In fact, he chose to attend B3 over a private school in his own neighborhood because he wanted to be among the regular people.

And now he was smiling at Tuki kindly and generously, as he was. though they were equals. Yes, she had wanted to tell him, I'm better than okay, but her mouth didn't work. Theophilus tilted his head to the side, his lip curling over a slightly chipped tooth. That was quite a spill. And then, amazingly, he had reached down and taken her hand.

Tuckie's tongue was frozen solid. she'd imagined what she must look like to him, like a rag doll without most of its stuffing, and with trace lines of drool on both of her cheeks. Disgusting! After a few minutes of Tuki lying there, just staring, theophilus stepped back, an apologetic look on his face. Okay, um, sorry.

And then he had turned around and left. They hadn't talked since. Now Theophilus was fast approaching. T-minus ten, nine, eight? Albert Talbert, the most disheveled student at B-3, walked alongside him, his unlaid shoes flapping against the hard, shiny floor. T-minus three seconds? Two? Maybe Theophilus would see her today,

splayed out in the spilled. Maybe he would do as he did last year, standing above her, extending his hand, asking, Are you okay? And then Tuki would stare into his salted caramel eyes and tell him exactly how she felt. Theophilus crossed in front of Albert and stumbled over Albert's shoelace as if it were a tripwire. His body pitched forward. Tuki reached up her arms to catch him. Unfortunately, theophilus caught hold of an open locker and steadied himself.

Something plopped onto Tuki's chest, and she did a half sit-up to peer at it. Vote for love. Theophilus's button. Tuckie stared at the button for a long time. Finally, she'd tentatively reached for it, thrilled to touch something that had so recently been so close to Theophilus's skin. Tuckie's hand was two centimeters from reaching, vote for love, when, whoosh!

A field hockey stick grazed her abdomen and sent the button flying across the hall. Tuki sat up fast, panicked. Their love was, rolling right up to Manny Manuel's locker. It's mine! Tuki lurched to her feet and charged through the stomping crowd, nearly knocking Manny over. She scanned the floor for the button. Where is it? Where is it? Then she spied it.

There, near that pair of hairy. legs. The legs belonged to Abigail Good, who wore her super thick, long, wavy black hair with pride, even from her armpits. Abigail took a step forward and her sharp heel squished the vote for Love button, which shot out from under her shoe. Tuki cried out in pain, as if the button were her own tender skin. Love careened down the stairs. Tukie bolted at top speed down the steps, taking two, then three at a time. Follow the love, Tuky, follow the love. A shiny black boot kicked the button

and sent it sailing through the stale cafeteria air right into a trash can. Tuckie pursued it like a lion after a zebra. She wanted that button. It felt like the only new thing anyone had ever given her in her life. Not that Theophilus had exactly given it to her, but Tuky wasn't one to quibble over semantics. She reached the trash can.

took a deep breath and plunged her hands into it. She felt slimy banana peels, congealed macaroni and cheese, crusty heels of bread, and sticky soda cans. Finally, her fingers curled around the button, and she pulled it out with glee. The poor thing was badly damaged, dented and slimy from its voyage. In fact, it no longer said vote for love.

Instead, the V and O and, and E of the first word were gone. The F and R of the second were totally erased. And of the last word, the L was knocked into non-existence, and the V was scratched so badly it resembled a K, but the E remained intact. Tuki almost threw the button back into the trash before her eyes focused again,

and she saw that now it spelled its own version of her. To Ouki Me she gasped And then she looked up To her astonishment Theophilus stood at her side Staring at her gunked up hands

Above the trash can He was quite short Only coming up to Tookie's chin And there was a whisper of a bemused smile on his lips You find what you were looking for? It was a stout Amazing. The second sentence Theopolis had ever said to her.

Tuky stared at the button in her hand. Maybe she could show it to Theopolis. Look how your slogan changed it to my name, she could say. Don't you think it's a sign to? Theopolis? Tuckies and Theophilus's head swiveled to the left. Zarpesta, Zarya, no. strolled into the hallway.

With long, single-textured, bone-straight, auburn hair, flawless skin that didn't need an ounce of concealer, eyelashes that required not a stroke of mascara, and a tall, lean body kissed with subtle curves. She made every head in the B-3 hall whip in her direction. And just like that, Tuckie's heart drooped to her hand-me-up shoes, which were two sizes too small. Zarpesa was Theophilus's girlfriend.

They'd been an item for the past three years. There you are! Zerpessa trilled, swinging her golden rod-hued dream bag. This year's $5,000-it purse in her hand. She glided toward Theophilis with the grace of a swan and held up a massive poster written in gold glitter pen. Zarpessa Zaria No presents Theophilus Love Laces for President. Dot, dot, dot, again.

This is made with real gold dust, Zarpesa boasted. My father had some despair. And our mayor's sister, psychoanalyst, neighbors BFF, told me that posters written with precious medals like this, definitely get you reelected. She added. Theophilus turned his attention from two. Tuckie and looked at Zarpesa. Oh, um, great, Tsar.

He unconsciously reached the area of his chest where his vote for love button used to be. The empty spot made him pause for a moment, flustered, but then he kissed Zarpesa gently on the lips. It was hard for Tuki not to stare. Oh, how she wanted it to be her lips. Theophilus was kissing right now. She'd imagined it so much. many times. She and Theophilus alone together in the dry Peppertown forest. Their lips moving closer, closer, closer, and finally touching to give Tuky her first and only kiss.

Zarpes would be forgotten. Tuki would be remembered. The happy couple walked away, arm and arm, leaving Tuckie alone by the stinking trash can. She slipped the button into the pocket of her shorts. The fabric so tight she could feel T-O-O-K-E digging into her hip. All sorts of emotions flooded through her. Hope, then disappointment, then embarrassment, and shame. Even if Theopolis had spoken to her, it wouldn't have meant he wanted to know her.

It would take a miracle. No, not Tuki's sister. but a real miracle for Theopolis to notice her in the way she wanted. And for Tuki de la Crem, miracles were impossible to come by. Two, Exodus. Oh, the smell! The dreadful smell. Poor Tuki, covered in the wretched decay of other people's refuse. How I wish I could hand her a pair of Lufimitz, or offer her a small of Lufthi, or offer her a

scalding bath with the essential oils of eucalyptus, burgomot, and ilang ylang with three boxes of baking soda, a gallon of laundry detergent, twelve capfuls of all-purpose bleach, two squirts of antibacterial hand soap, and a dash of ammonia. Oh darling, I can feel the burn now, but you know what they say? No pain, no remorse. No removal of Funkstein. As Tuckie was exiting her last class of the day, a course called autology, which stressed that students must look inside themselves to determine what kind of factory work best suited them, the speaker over her head bleated out five seconds of screeching feedback. Dension angle, or bowl, and aid students!

Principal Robbie Cosby boomed over the horrendously unreliable PA system. We have imperarily shut off our water due to the heightened misuse equals the smyze craze. So if you have to use the erstroom, you must own it until you're off-school premises. Perfect, Tuki thought, looking at her hands, still mucky from her. her date with the trash can. She walked down the bank of battered lockers, rusty and chipped, some with doors nearly off their hinges and all with students' names written on strips of paper, and finally arrived at a space without a locker. At the crevice in the wall was a small door split across the middle. As Stuki pushed down hard on the bottom half of the door,

both halves retracted, one into the floor, the other into the ceiling, revealing. a dangling rope. She pulled the rope to raise a hidden shelf. It was a dumbwaiter, another relic from when B3 had cranked out bibles, bongles, bangles, and beads. Factory workers had used it to pass items

like jewelers' tools, food and garbage between the floors of the building. Today, this old relic was Tuki de la Crem's locker. On the first day of high school at B3, all of the lockers had been taken, left a fen for herself, Tuckie improvised with the dumb waiter, but she didn't mind it at all.

Beside the usual piles of textbooks and novels, Tuckie had installed a miniature fully stocked cooler. She opened the cooler, pulled out a box of wipes, and cleaned the grime from the trash bin off her hands as best she could. Then she considered her snacking options. Tuki was always hungry, so she liked to have an arsenal of food on hand. There were buttermilk biscuits, plastic containers of sausage gravy, vanilla sandwich cookies, every condiment from spicy ketchup to Dijon mustard to mesquite, honey, and Chipotle barbecue sauces. Her favorites. She pretty much liked all food except chocolate.

She'd once gorged at a chocolate festival her mother had dragged her to in the District of La Dorno, home of some of the finest chocolates in the world. She'd eaten so much she'd gotten sick on the drive home, but her mother hadn't shown her any sympathy when Tuki had demanded they'd pull over so she could throw up. So she had thrown up in the car. For punishment, her mother had grounded her. Literally.

Tuki had been forced to sit and sleep on the floor for one month solid. Finally, Tuki selected a canister of strawberry-flavored whipped greens. and shot a spurt of cold, delicious, whipped berry-yumbiness onto her tongue. Then she grabbed the books she needed for homework, slammed the dumbwaiter shut, and continued toward the double-door exit. Most of her classmates were still burbling excitedly about T-Dodd. Kylie, a bronze-skinned girl wearing bamboo earrings the size of her head, read aloud from the Peppertown Press. The mayor of Metopia, the eye. Honorable Devon Rump the sixth predicts the biggest turnout ever.

Spectators who have traveled to Metopia from all over the world are paying record prices for prime spots. Rump has launched an aggressive campaign to arrest scalpers who are selling tickets to VIP sections. I'm making it my personal mission, declared Mayor Rump, to protect every young girl's inalienable right. Not every young girl's inalienable right, Tugie thought as she pushed through the school's double doors. A huge sign across the street confronted her. Welcome to Pepper Town, Accessories Mecca. Metopia was split into four quadrants, each with its own weather system. There was frigid chavara, tempestuous pitterpatter, lovely Lodorno.

Only the elite live there, and it was where T-Dod was always held. And finally, sweltering Pepper Town, as hot as, you guessed it, a scotch bonnet. That was where Tuckie lived, and where B-3 stood. Each quadrant butted up against the others like the seams of a garment, and oh, what a shock it was to travel from one quadrant into the next. The thing was, because of Miotopia's expansive range of environments and wealth of natural resources, the city's politicians realized that a great many things could be produced there, and a great deal of money made. The city grew into the global center of the fashion and beauty industry. The majority of Mitoopia's residents worked on inhumane fashion or beauty factory assembly lines.

In fact, the majority of B3 students who weren't seen. selected for the grand land on the mountain would end up doing the same. There was always job openings. The Welcome to Peppertown signs were on the corner of every block of the quadrant. The Quadrant Council had thought the signs would be cheerful beacons for tourists. Not that tourists ever visited. Accessories weren't the only thing associated with Peppertown, though. The thing most people associated with Peppertown was the

whoosh. As soon as Tuki stepped out of B3's double doors, her eyes squinted almost closed from the searing sun. The heat wafted at her like someone had just switched on the world's largest, strongest turbine-powered heater. Students covered their faces as though they'd stepped into a dust storm. Sunglasses immediately rose to eyes and hats clapped atop heads. When her eyes had adjusted, Tuki saw air. Abigail Good yelling and marching by, wielding at the heavens a picket sign that read down with razors. And as usual, Tuckie's hair exploded into expando mode. Each individual follicle swelling and swelling until pop! Her multiple personality hair was about six times its original size.

Groaning, Tuckie reached into her bag, groping for a bottle of Chevo-Mal gel. the only gel that kind of worked on her hair. The sun's wrath determined Peppertown's landscape as well. The leaves on the trees were crisp and brown. No birds nestled in nooks or branches. No butterflies fluttered by. Not even the tiniest insect scuttled past on the sidewalk. And you didn't dare touch the sidewalk in Peppertown.

It would burn your fingerprints off. Only a few people trudged dazedly. down the broiling streets that day. A fair-skinned, eggplant-shaped woman stepped out of a tow-ring factory. Before she could clap a sun hat on her head, her skin had turned an angry red. A man in a bowler hat weakly and uselessly

fanned his face with a copy of the Peppertown Press, wet ink staining his sweaty palms. The headline on the front page said, Baroness still on the run. It was a story that had ravaged Miotopia for several years now. Apparently, a famous wealthy baroness had run a Yonzi scheme of sorts, investing people's money unwisely and bankrupting them all. Instead of making good on her payments, she had gathered her family and fled.

Dominique and Monique, two girls with large trejolie braids coiled around their heads, bent over a fire hydrant, watching water spray from the spout. Two smithes have been found already, Dominique squealed. Only two, which leaves five still out there somewhere. If a smize comes out now, we'll cut it in half, and we can both wear it to T-Dod. Monique squealed happily. Our chances will it prove by 45. 5.5% not bad.

Look! A girl at the bottom of the B3 steps pointed at the sky. Everyone looked up. Some of the fog at the very top of the mountain had parted, revealing the top tips of what they all knew was a bright eye shining in the sky. Ooh, everyone cried. The Grand Mountain poked between Peppertown's wilted

trees. Even though Tuki couldn't see them from here, she knew that camera crews were camped out at the mountain's base, anxiously waiting for that golden fog to vanish, and scouts to start shuttling girls up to the peak.

Is this it? Dominique shrieked. Is it happening? Not yet, Zerpessa, who was standing at the curb, said knowingly. My leg waxer's father's sister told me this father, fog peekaboo is just to get us all excited so we'll buy more souvenirs on tea dodd then as if following

zarpes's command the hole in the fog closed obscuring the mysterious mountain once more the pandemonium quickly turned to reverent silence tuki's heart slowed its pace he czar need a ride home Lorelei, one of Zar Pessa's friends, asked, I'd love to see the gorgeous mansion you live in. Ah, thanks, but no thanks. Zerpessa twirled her hair. See, my therapist, yoga's, teachers, meditation guru's son-in-law told me that my walk to and from school is, well,

it's my time to be by myself, especially in prep for the big day. Maybe another time. and then she turned and marched off down a sweltering side street. Tuki sighed and turned too. She had to walk home as well, but not because some meditation guru told her it was her alone time. As she trudged along the char broiled sidewalk,

she kept a running count of the cracks and the overlapping messages point stamped onto the concrete at street corners. Fated stamps read, Where is C.L? Newer ones painted on top of that said, Where the hell is C.L? The message is puzzled, Tuckie. They referred to C.L.

Whose name was pronounced C.L. The most magnificent seven ever to grace the earth. A triple seven. A majestic woman with a caramel-colored skin and the most intoxicating eyes. For a long time, C.L's visage was everywhere. and monopolized every fashion campaign and runway in every major style capital of the world, until only a few months ago, when her images had abruptly disappeared from billboards, magazine ads,

and the sides of buses worldwide. A special news bulletin had announced that CL was no longer accepting work and wouldn't be the face of her own CL by jerk perfume, the best-selling fragrance in the world. but there was no explanation. Tuki walked on past the long lines of accessory factories. Workers rushed in and out, their heads down, their faces permanently creased into frowns.

Several children stood on the sidewalk, their eyes hollow, their hair cut short, their body swimming in workers' uniforms. These were the factory dependents. Children sometimes even younger than Tuki, whose parents could no longer or choose, not to care for them. Greedy industry overlords took them in, housed them in slums, and paid them nothing. Servants for life.

Whenever Tuki saw them, she felt a rush of pity and dread. Then she approached a sunglasses factory, whose facade was made of long sheets of glass. Her image swam into the reflection, and she winced. She still had that four, no, Five, no, six, head. The slightly too small weak chin, the multiple personality disorder hair, and the woolly caterpillar eyebrows. Her eyes still spread wide like an antelopes. One the color of dirt, the other of snot.

Yep, same old Tuky, different day. A few blocks later, Tuckie turned down an alley between two factories and which, waited in front of an old oak tree. No matter how hot it was, or how tired and dejected she felt, Tuki walked down this narrow corridor and stopped at this tree every single day. It was a special place, the place her friend, Lizzie, called home. It wasn't a home in the normal sense. The day Tuky met Lizzie, the nervous red-haired girl, had been fleeing an invisible assailant,

and had dragged Tuki up this very tree with her. Nessled in the top branches was a tree cottage of sorts, with piles and piles of clothes inside. Nurses' uniforms and firemen's boots and mechanics jumpsuits. Bags of scones and jugs of water sat in the corner. A twin mattress. Who knew how Lizzie had dragged it up there? Sat in the middle, shaded by heavy branches.

This was where Lizzie lived. alone. Now, as Tuckie approached the tree, she thought she saw a branch rustle. She hadn't seen Lizzie in almost six weeks, which was a little strange. Sure, Lizzie kept an erratic schedule, not going to school, disappearing at night, but six weeks was an awfully long absence. Tuckie was worried about her. Then Tuckie spotted a shock of red hair. A figure peered down from a high branch, Lizzie, Tuckie cried out. Her heart lifted. The girl darted down the makeshift ladder that hung from the tree cottage,

grabbed Tuckie's hand and pulled her upward. When they reached the top, the girls extended their palms out, pointed to the sky with both hands, sniffed each armpit, and then curtsied. This was their silent expression of their secret greeting. What's up, hot queen? "'Is anyone with you?' Lizzie whispered, her left hand twitching. Tuckie snorted. "'Is anyone ever?

You know you're always safe with Forget a girl.' "'I hate it when you say that. Stop it.' "'Tuckie shrugged. "'Just stating the truth.' "'Lizzy sighed. "'Well, I remember you, as clear as this day is hot, so shut up.' "'Then she peaked down at the ground. there was an unhinged, terrified look in her eyes.

Or not being followed, Lizzie, Tuky insisted. I swear, there's no one with me or near me. Lizzie exhaled a long-held breath and flung her arms around Tuckie squeezing hard. I've missed you so much. Me too, Tuckie said. Feeling both grateful Lizzie was back and frustrated that she'd been gone in the first place. She pulled away and stared at her friend. Lizzie's skin was oddly smooth,

nothing like its normal acne-prone, pock-marked sunburned state, and she wore a blue hospital gown tied at the back and a pair of doctor's scrub pants that bagged at the ankles. Chevera County Hospital was stitched on the gown. This always happened when Lizzie returned after a long period away. So tell me everything! Lizzie flopped down on her mattress.

What have I missed? Tuckie shyly reached into the pocket of her shorts, which was now quite sweaty from the humid walk, and pulled out the button to Uki. I found this today. Lizzie stared at it carefully. Is it one of his? Tuki nodded.

She'd told Lizzie about theophilus countless times before, describing him in great detail, down to his vote for love pin. And he spoke to me too. She filled Lizzie in, except for the part about how Zar Pesai had swooped in and ruined everything. Lizzie ran her fingers over the dented metal. Look at how the letters have worn off to spell your name. It's a sign. Tuki loved that Lizzie got her so quickly.

No one else did. Yes. but then she appeared. Zarpasa, Lizzie guessed. Yep. Tuky groaned. That girl has everything.

Gorgeousness, money, Theopolis. Every time Zarpesa touches my Theopolis, it digs at my heart. A conflicted look crossed Lizzie's face. And then she smiled. Actually, your heart's not the only thing Zarpas's digging. What? What are you talking about? Tuckie prodded. Lizzie raised her eyebrows.

Come on, I'll show you. She grabbed Tuki's hand and the girls climbed down the ladder. Lizzie pulled Tuki along a series of streets until they arrived at Juan Horhe's, the only fancy restaurant in Peppertown, which catered to the quadrant's politicians. What are we doing here? Tuckie whispered. "'Sh,' Lizzie whispered. "'She led Tuckie to a dumpster at the back of the restaurant. "'It's lit gaped open, the lock broken.

"'Tugie looked at Lizzie. "'Lizzie, are you hungry? "'Do you need food?' "'Lizzie usually dumpster dove, "'even though Tuki tried to provide her with as much food as she could. "'But Lizzie shook her head. "'Look!' "'A group of shabby people stood around the dumpster.

"'Some of them wore masks. "'The tallest man wore. a gas mask. A shorter woman wore a tribal mask, and what looked like a girl, Tuky's age, had on a tattered comedy tragedy mask. The girl carried a familiar yellow dream bag in the crook of her elbow. Tuki frowned. The woman in the tribal mask pushed in front of the rest and grabbed handfuls of untouched fish fillets, half-drained bottles of wine, and loaves of day-old Trey Joe Lee bread. "'Zar, baby, I'm so sorry you don't deserve this. Take the sea bass. It's still warm.'

"'Zar?' Tuckie whispered. Lizzie nodded feverishly, trying not to twitch. The woman pulled more items out of the dumpster. "'Zar, baby, it's some sparkling apple cider that's still cold. Take it, honey, please.' The girl in the masquerade mask dropped the bottle into her. dream bag. The same gold glitter that adorned Theophilus as

presidential posters dotted her fingers. Could it really be Zarpesa under there? B3 Sarpessa? The stunning, wealthy girlfriend of Theophilus love laces? Tuki turned to Lizzie. But Sarpesa is an heir to the Zariano peanut empire.

I just saw an ad for their peanut oil in the paper. Lizzie shrugged. I guess they lost their fortune. Just then the mask girl's head shot up. The dark eye holes in her mask aimed straight at Tooki and Lizzie. They both ducked, but not quite in time. Sarpeza's shoulders stiffened.

The cider bottle fell out of her dream bag, shattering on the ground. Run! Lizzie cried. They bolted away from the restaurant and sprinted through the sweltering Peppertown streets. Once they were safely out of range, Tuckie stopped and bent over, out of breath. Do you think she saw us? I don't know, Lizzie answered. I can't believe it.

Tuckie shook her head. How long do you think she's been digging through trash? I think it's been years, Lizzie said. She just made the mistake of crossing over into my territory at the used clothes stump. super early this morning. I got into a tussle with her over a killer dress. It was deep yellow and it was made with this crazy shimmery fabric. Man, I could have snuck into some serious black tie blowouts in that thing.

But Miss Arpesa, she won the tug of war. I guess she wanted it more. So I threw some matching yellow shoes at her. Her shameless butt scooped him right up and didn't even utter a thank you. Wow, Tuckie whispered. She's living one big, fat lie. One big fat homeless lie. And suddenly, mid-sentence, Lizzie's expression changed,

clouding and contorting into a look Tuckie knew all too well. Something else had overtaken Lizzie's mind. Her body twitched. The muscles in her face stretched and contracted. She glared blankly into her. to Tuki's eyes. Tell them to stop. Lizzie pleaded in a strange garbled voice.

They always say it won't hurt, but it does. Lizzie, come back, Tuckie urged, grabbing Lizzie by her shoulders and shaking her. I can take it when they hurt me, but when they hurt Robin, I feel it more. Robin again, Lizzie, who is Rosemary? Robin. Lizzie casually rolled up her sleeve and Tuckie's gaze fell to her friend's bare arm. Three inflamed red marks marred the crook of her elbow right at the center. A burn scar traversed her bicep. A larger patch of seared skin bubbled on the inside of her wrist. The burn looked fresh. Tuckie winced. Then Lizzie began to search the ground. Lizzy don't, Tooky said.

knowing what was coming next. Lizzie ignored Tuki and continued her search, finally locating a sharp rock. She picked it up and brought its jagged edge down to her inner arm near her wrist. Blood flowed from the fresh slice in her skin. Tuki grabbed her arm. Stop it! Why do you do that?

Lizzie lowered her eyes. Her face was a ballet of twitching and wincing. Because it hurts so much and I feel, better when I do it, she said desperately. Tears came to Tuki's eyes. She felt helpless seeing her best friend so tormented. Lizzie, what hurts so much? You can tell me, Tuki begged.

I can handle it, and you know I'm not going anywhere, ever. You know you can trust me. Does it have something to do with that place? She pointed to the embroidery on Lizzie's gown. Shevera County Hospital. She both wanted to know the answer and feared it. It's better you don't know, Lizzie whispered. Tuki took a step back.

The Melancholy Award, she thought. That had to be where Lizzie had gone. It was surely where she always went. Officials probably repeatedly hunted down the paranoid orphan girl and dragged her off to the infamous mental ward in Chavara County. County Hospital, since she was too unstable to work in a factory. People in Metopia whispered that the staff of Melancholia ignored the atrocities that went on between the patients. Some said it was worse than the Chevera prison, which housed Metopia's deadliest criminals. There was never any way

Tuki could look for Lizzie and Melancholia either. The Chavara Hospital kept no records as though it didn't exist. During the five years they'd been friends, Lizzie had talked to her. Lizzie had talked to Tuckie many things, not to be afraid to splunk into the hidden Peppertown caves, which offered a stunning view of the undiscovered Peppertown Platinum Mine, how to sneak into the Ritzie, no-tourous-allowed areas of Lodorno without getting caught. It's all about attitude, Lizzie had said, donning a hand-me-up dress from Tuckie's closet. And what with Tuckie's strange spills and writing but never sending letters habit, and Lizzie's screams and paranoia, it was like they were the only two happily crazed screwballs in a sea of sanity.

Try not to think about where I disappear to, Tucci, Lizzie whispered, pulling the gown sleeves back over her arms. A wistful look floated across her face. Think about Exodus instead, sleeping on the beach every night. Tuckie smiled weakly and swimming whenever we're. we want to? Lizzy poked Tuki's thigh. The whipped cream factory we could build for you right on the shore. So we'd be in the dreaded factory business, huh? Tuckie said playfully, grow what we know. We'll build a grilled cheese dipped in strawberry jelly factory for you. Grilled cheese dipped in strawberry jelly was Lizzie's absolute favorite food. Tuckie snuck Lizzie sandwiches whenever she got the chance. And we'd own the factories, not just work in them, Lizzie added. Our workers would be

part owners, too, and we'd treat them with respect, not like the workers are treated here. And Theophilus would be our mayor, Tewke swooned. And we'd give our leftover lunches to Zarpesa as she waited outside every night in the cold ocean air for our staff scraps. Lizzie said, said with a devilish grin. And there'd be no sharp objects anywhere near our factories, Tuki said strongly, forcing Lizzie to look her into the eyes. Right? Lizzie locked eyes with Tuki, then looked down and rubbed her arm.

Right, she said. Okay, so when? Tuckie looked off into the distance, and her mind flashed with the memories of what she and Lizzie had talked about so many times, leaving Metopia together, forever. Who knew where they'd go? Who knew how they'd get there? But they'd figure it out. They'd be to forget a girl, peas in a pod. They called it their exodus plan. Their secret code for it was X-O-2. Tuki would write the symbol on the front door of her home when it was time to go. I don't know, Lizzie. I don't think I'm ready.

Tuki had never been out of Mietopia. How could she live in a tree and scavenge for food as Lizzie did? Of course you're ready, Lizzie said. You're stronger than you think. Tuki looked away. She didn't really believe that. Then Lizzie scanned the alleyway, probably looking for pursuers again. It was empty.

Tuki touched Lizzie's shoulder. Lizzie, if I go away with you, will you tell me the truth about what happened to you? Her gaze fell to Lizzie's arm, the hospital sleeve now concealing the burns. She thought about how she both wanted and didn't want to know this dark secret of Lizzie's. Lizzie's lips parted. She blinked silently for a moment, thinking, running her fingers slowly along her forearm. "'No. They'll kill you if I tell you. You have to trust me.' Then she shuddered and wheeled around.

"'I have to go. They're getting close.' "'But I just got here, Lizzie. And you've been gone for so long. Don't go yet,' Tuckie pleaded. "'Where are you going? Do you need water? More clothes? I can steal some blankets from my house. You know how she gets rid of stuff that's hardly been used. I'll be okay. I'll wait for you to be ready, Tuki, and I know you will be soon. Exodus, think about it. For real this time. I love you, Tuki. Giving Tuki a hurried wave, Lizzie quickly ran down the hot Peppertown sidewalk. Tuckie's eyes tracked Lizzie as far as she could see. Her last view of her troubled friend was

old Lizzie stooping to pick something up from the ground. Tuki shut her eyes, devastated, when she realized what it was. Another sharp rock. But do we trust this sickly little beggar character? I imagine that that is how Tyra Banks did originally pitch that character. Yeah, and then we've got some spindly little one. Yeah, it's got mental health problems. Yuck!

It's not as pretty as the other girls. Ew, never trust an ugly. Don't worry, you'll find that more and more as this book goes on. But if you want the rest of it, and I know you do, want to you smize your way on over to the page seven Patreon. And no, I'm not talking about smize cream. And no, I'm not talking about hot smize cream. which, man, the fact that Tyra Banks tried to repackage hot cocoa as hot smyze cream, still to this day,

she really thought that she was a revolutionary entrepreneur. And honestly, if she wasn't so evil, I'd be all aboard. You know, I mean, obviously, you guys can kind of tell I'm like halfway aboard the Tyra Express, even though then you watch the America's Next Top Model documentary and you're like, oh, I shouldn't be championing this person. But that's why we champion her off to the side like this, while we're also, you know, kind of recognizing and accepting that this is truly bad shit behavior and that I can't believe she got away with writing this.

But at the time, she was at the, I mean, top of her game. So they really thought that she was going to be flying high, but man, oh no. Oh, she smithed her way all the way into the groan. But thank you guys so much for checking this out and for giving it a try. And maybe you hate it. Maybe you're like, there's no effing way. I'm going to find out more about that acrobat daddy that Jackie was talking about, which I get. But you know, I want to see you'll be brave.

get on over to patreon.com slash page 7 podcast. We love you guys so much. Hope you enjoyed this journey and we'll see you next week. This show is made possible by listeners like you. Thanks to our ad sponsors,

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