Read Online Emerald City by Jennifer Egan - Free Book Online Page B

yellow sky and held hands tightly, as if something were about to happen.
    Rory’s heart beat quickly. “So maybe it doesn’t work,” he said. “The modeling. Maybe that just won’t happen.”
    He searched her face for some sign of surprise, but there was none. She watched him calmly, and for the first time Rory felt that Stacey was older than he, that her mind contained things he knew nothing of. She stood up and handed her Coke to Rory. Then she grasped the railing of the fire escape and lifted her body into a handstand. Rory held his breath, watching in alarmed amazement as the slender wand of her body swayed against the yellow sky. She had no trouble balancing, and hovered there for what seemed a longtime before finally bending at the waist, lowering her feet, and standing straight again.
    “If it doesn’t work,” she said, “then I’ll see the world some other way.”
    She took Rory’s face in her hands and kissed him on the mouth—hard, with the fierce, tender urgency of someone about to board a train. Then she turned and looked at the sky. Rory stared at her, oddly frightened to think that she would do it, she would find some way. He pictured Stacey in a distant place, looking back on him, on this world of theirs as if it were a bright, glittering dream she had once believed in.
    “Take me with you,” he said.

THE STYLIST
    When they finally reach the dunes, Jann, the photographer, opens a silver umbrella. This is the last shot of the day. The light is rich and slanted. Around them the sand lies in sparkling heaps, like piles of glass silt.
    A girl toes the sand. She wears a short cotton skirt, a loose T-shirt. A few feet away from her the stylist pokes through a suitcase filled with designer bathing suits. The stylist’s name is Bernadette. She’s been doing this for years.
    “Here,” she says, handing the girl a bikini. It is made of shiny red material. The girl glances at Jann, who is busy loading his camera. She slips her underpants from beneath the skirt and pulls on the bathing-suit bottom. She is not close to twenty yet.
    “Is this the cover shot?” asks the girl, whose name is Alice. Each time she’s in a shot she asks this question.
    “Where were you two months ago?” the stylist says.
    “What do you mean?” Alice’s face is diamond-shaped. Her eyes are filled with gold.
    “I mean where were you two months ago?” Bernadette asks again.”
    “I was home. They hadn’t found me yet.” “Home is where?”
    “Rockford, Illinois.”
    “Cover shot or not,” Bernadette tells the girl, “it seems to me you aren’t doing too badly.”
    This takes Alice by surprise. Her mouth opens as if to answer, but instead she turns away and lifts the T-shirt over her head. There is something despairing in the movement of her shoulders. She covers each of her small breasts with half of the red bathing-suit top. Bernadette ties the straps. Alice stares for a moment at the waves, which are pale blue and disorderly.
    “Where are we again?” she asks.
    “Lamu,” says Bernadette.
    Hair and Makeup arrive, panting from the walk. Nick, the makeup man, begins to work on the girl’s eyes. She hugs herself.
    “Where were we yesterday?” she asks.
    “Mombasa,” says Bernadette.
    The photographer is ready. The silver umbrellas are raised to gather the light. He holds a light meter to the girl’s chest. Hair and Makeup share a cigarette. There are two other models on this trip, and they watch from a distance. The sea mumbles against the dunes. The girl looks especially bare, surrounded by people who are dressed. She is still so new the camera frightens her. Jann has removed it from his tripod and is holding it near her face. “This face,”he says, pausing to glance at the rest of them. “Will you look at this face?”
    They look. It is delicate as a birdcage. Jann squints behind his camera. The rhythm of the shutter mingles with the breaking waves. Catching it, the girl begins to move.
    “There,”