Another girl, same T-shirt, led me inside, bouncing down the hallway. “You are sooo lucky that you work with her.”

We hurried down narrow hallways, arriving at a door that had a sheet of printer paper taped to it with STRENA and the date.

“Good luck!” The girl bounced away with a manic wave.

I almost told her to wait for me. I was only going to be there a minute, just to tell Strena I couldn’t do the show. This is so not me. I’m sorry. I’m not Violet.

I opened the door.

Explain. Apologize. Run.

That was the plan. Except, I didn’t see Strena anywhere.

Monique, in a red silk robe, flew over. “Come on. Makeup. You’re late.” She dragged me to a clothes rack. “Strip.” And then she pointed at a box of white robes next to the rack. “Hurry.”

“I don’t think—”

“No time to think. You have to do it. There’s no one else.”

Someone called her name from the other side of the room. She squeezed my hand in encouragement and took flight again.

I drew a deep diaphragm breath. Then another. By the third, I accepted that I couldn’t leave without messing up Strena’s big night. I fixed Violet’s painting, Excalibur, firmly in my mind.

“Could you please point me to the dressing room?” I asked the next person who zipped by.

“This is the dressing room. You okay?”

No. Not okay. Not even remotely right.

I turned my back to the others. Better. I quickly changed into a robe before I could freak out completely. I’d barely tied my belt before Strena sailed through a set of double doors in the back. She scanned the models one by one, nodding.

Then her gaze snapped to me. “Makeup!”

A woman in her forties materialized from thin air, black yoga pants, fitted black T-shirt, shaved head. “Tiana.” She shoved a rolling chair in my direction. “Sit.”

“I didn’t have a good night,” I told Strena. “I’m sure you wouldn’t—”

“Last-second jitters. Everyone has them. Did you remember not to use body lotion?”

“What about my face?”

“I never obstruct the models’ faces. The world has done that long enough, emphasizing women’s bodies, as if our faces are interchangeable.”

The makeup artist dabbed a cooling cream under my eyes that tingled. “Hemorrhoid ointment,” she said. “Brings down swelling.”

Strena patted my shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

I was bewildered. “We’ve never practiced.”

“All I need you to do is stand still. The other models will go through their routine. Don’t try to copy them. I’ll adjust.”

“But—”

She strode away. “Time to move, people!”

Tiana held up three caramel triangles. She immediately started squeezing adhesive on the first from a bottle she pulled from her pocket.

I scampered back. “What happened to the bikinis?”