A. R. Morlan - The Anabe Girls

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The Anabe Girls by A. R. Morlan

* * * *

WannaBeAnaBe: I was thinking that since u and I have the same goal, we could join

forces. If you really want to avoid eating, make sure you flick your ashes from your

cigarette onto your plate after the first bite, if you are still taking the first bite. From

your trigger, I’m guessing you are still eating some food. Check out mine at

www.life-diet.com to see what I mean...

* * * *

“Hey Jake, take a look at this.”

Jacob kept on ratting the hair of the Anabe Agency model sitting placidly

before him into a gauzy puff-ball of processed-down-to-colorless brittle strands

which hovered over her (if you could still call what sat on the chair in front of Jacob

a her) taut-skinned skull like a tumbleweed which had lost its central core of thicker

dried branches, until Shane repeated, “Jacob, take-a-look-at-this.”

Knowing that whichever of the Anabe Girls sitting there (was she Odella or

Letje, Radella or Paola?) wasn’t about to wander off in search of a cup of coffee, or

a fresh pack of cigarettes, Jacob put down his ratting comb on the table of hair

grooming products positioned near his work area, and turned to his fellow

hairdresser.

“What now?”

Shane was looking at the exposed nape of his Anabe Agency model’s neck,

pushing aside his girl’s forward-and-upward ratted mane of crispy-processed hair

with one hand, as he probed a small patch of stretched-tight-neck-flesh with the

forefinger of his free hand. For her part, the model (Coretta, Vibeke, perhaps

Carling?) didn’t seem to notice that she was staring not at the rush and bustle of the

pre-showing backstage chaos surrounding her, but instead at her own baseball-bat

thin legs, and bas-relief patella jutting up sharply under the smooth, hard skin of her

knees. A singular trait of the Anabe Agency girls—no bitching, no wiggling around,

no constant chomping and cud-chewing of gum ... just blessed stillness, and deep

focus.

“The damn bitch does brand them ... like freaking range-roaming cattle.”

Jacob didn’t need to ask who “the damn bitch” was—in the last five years,

ever since she’d started agenting her astonishing girls, and inundating every major

casting with dozens of her “finds” the latest wunderkind of the modeling world’s

name was known by both constant exposure and earned reputation to anyone and

everyone in the fashion world. Ms. Stephanie Steele, also known and loathed as

Miss Steal by all the modeling agencies whose girls routinely lost runway slots at

major designer casting sessions to her impossibly skinny-emaciated-skeletal walking

spaghetti-girls. Not that the other agents, the other agencies, didn’t try to get their

girls to diet down to that gold standard of thinness, down past a size 2 into

Zero-land, a place far more magical and lucrative than Fairyland or even Never-Never

Land could ever hope to be. But little petty nuisances like fainting spells during five

mile runs, heart failure and even the occasional actual death just kept getting in the

way of any agency acquiring the perfect stable of Ã¼bermodels ... until Miss Steal

came along, with a cadre of ultimate anorexics whose willpower and accompanying

success manifested itself in their perverse thinness.

No, Jacob corrected himself, Anabe Girls went beyond thin ... all you had to

do was add a “g” and you had what they really were—things, devoid of physical

sexual markers like protruding breasts, or rounded buns. Tall, compressed Slim-Jim

women, who somehow found the energy to move up and down a runway, blink on

occasion, and not fidget in the hair and make-up chairs even as they eschewed all

manner of food or non-food like bottles of ice water, sticks of celery, or wads of

gum.

These ... girls were so calorie-deprived, they didn’t even need two names (a

joke already considered old in modeling circles after the Anabe Girls had been on the

scene less than a year). So Jacob wasn’t totally sure if Shane was staring at the neck

of Luryna or Lenmana as he quitted his station, and walked the five feet across the

dressing area to where Shane continued to peer at One-Name’s exposed nape.

Even through the loose tee-shirt the model wore, Jacob could easily see her

spinal column, twin rows of protruding rounded knobs creating small rounded

shadows down her back as she leaned forward on the horizontal. Stabbing his

forefinger at her long neck, Shane glanced up at Jacob, and whispered, “Now this is

sick.”

All Jacob could do was nod dumbly, as he leaned over to peer at the Anabe

Girl’s papery-fine flesh, which sported a slightly depressed pair of brown-branded

initials—”SS”—just under the bottom of her hairline.

“Goes to show you how seriously Miss Steal takes her position as CEO over

there ... the agency initials aren’t good enough for Miss Thingie,” Shane said as he

gently pushed the ever-obedient model’s hair back down over her neck, then

grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her body back into an upright position.

Glancing over at her face, Jacob noticed that her expression never changed, nor did

her eyes move. And despite the surrounding rumble of hairdressers, make-up people

and dressers in the packed room, and the swish and snick of clothes being moved

on racks, and shucked off hangers, Jacob was certain that he’d heard Miss

One-Name’s joints creak and ratchet in their sockets as Shane changed her position

in that chair...

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