Among the Teenage Aspirants at Elite Model Search

"I'm too short," Emily says, standing in line behind the metal gates lining the sidewalk outside the Virgin Megastore on 14th St. last Wednesday. "Some of these girls are like 6-2. I'm only 5-5. But it's cool."

Twelve-year-old boys pass by on Razor scooters, stopping occasionally to glance up in awe at the girls, some of whom are just two years their senior, but who tower above them like Chrysler Buildings with breasts. Give it a few years, guys. They roll off, looking for something to make jumps out of. Even the bum, ambling down the street, who claims he "ain't axin' for a lot, jus' a small donation," stops and exclaims, "Shit, dem is some fine bitches."

The line is growing slowly for Elite Model Management's free open call to all girls ages 14 to 24 who might want to score a modeling contract. Fred Howard, the host and MC of tonight's event, amiably shakes my hand and tells me that the model search is how Cindy Crawford and Stephanie Seymour were first discovered.

"Well, it's kind of strange when you do something like this outside of a mall," he says. "In a mall, you have the audience captive, in the center of the court." He means the food court. "Whenever you do something in a store like this, especially in New York, it gets a little weird. You never know if you're going to have 10 girls or a hundred girls."

There are about 50 milling around, primed and ready to strut their lucky genetics. Publicist types crowd the area inside the door of the cafe and chat with some of the hopefuls while going through reams of headshots from previous events. The headshots seem to be on hand to up the ante?to flaunt the seldom-achieved standard. Virgin supplies the security?eyebrow-ringed boys in loose black event-staff shirts, amped at having such a prestigious opportunity to use the walkie-talkies.

I walk outside to light a smoke and find the friend of mine I'd brought along, making eye contact with a tall blonde.

"She's pretty damn hot," he says, not averting his gaze.

"Careful, man. She's pretty damn 15."

We step up to her spot in line, tape recorder ready. Her name is Kathy. She's 14, and a big fan of Tyra Banks. Her mother eyes my friend nervously. We go back inside and order burnt coffee.

Top 40 hits blast through the VMS cafe area. J. Lo and P. Diddy. Nervous parents pace back and forth, biting nails and brushing their daughters' hair with slow, painstaking strokes. The girls inside are told to join the growing line outside. Girls exclaim "Ohmigod!" into the latest Nokias and make for the door. The perimeter is peppered with obvious sharks, pedophiles and porn scouts who wipe sweating foreheads with faux-silk handkerchiefs, pinkie-ringed fingers aglitter. Something about all that sweat suggests that if given the opportunity, they'd be pushing coke bullets up perfectly sculpted noses, asking: "So, how bad you wanna be a model?" Hoo-boy. It's a real-life Pulp video.

Fred fires up the mic and announces the beginning of the show. "Now, this takes a lot of courage, so when these young ladies come out, feel free to applaud and cheer."

They are given instructions: saunter, pause, saunter, turn, halfway back, stop. No finger-popping, no gum chewing. They march out one by one, hand headshots to the panel and fly through the routine, some power-walking as if trying to catch the train.

"Slow down, girls," Fred instructs.

The hopefuls have the panel's attention only for about 20 minutes. After that, the panelists regress into hushed whispers and eye-rolling, snide laughter and chichi-isms. Soon, the listening stations, with their broken headphone-adjuster straps, and the magazine racks are getting more play than the girls. Businessmen sip lattes and pretend to read copies of Maxim and FHM. An army of girls crowds the end of the stage, trying to catch the judges' eyes. Nichole Robinson, 1998's semifinalist in the same contest, is slowly led up to the mic stand. They parade her out as if to make clear what they had in mind. People applaud reservedly. She relates her triumphant victory story, complete with if-you-have-a-dream-you-can-do-it and wind-beneath-my-wings crap. The audience "ahhs" like it's looking at a litter of puppies. A girl starts to cry.

There are 19 callbacks. As the names are announced, isolated shrieks cut through the air. Polaroids are taken and stapled to sheets of paper. There are some obvious sympathy votes, as if to say, look, the fashion industry is dirty, but we're breaking the mold here today by bringing Plain Jane up to rub elbows with the stars.

Nichole Robinson opens the envelope?it's like her own private Oscar night?and announces which semifinalist will go on to a competition very much like this one in the near future. Danielle Townshend smiles incredulously and turns red, today's runway glory all hers. Eighteen other callbacks walk off dejectedly. The panel of judges hands out stacks of Pink CDs and calendars to the contestants. To mend shattered dreams. Fred calls for a round of applause for the brave girls.

"Don't be disappointed," he instructs.

We walk across 14th St. A 35-year-old with perfect sideburns nears us, pushing his way along the sidewalk on his scooter, one-armed backpack velcroed in a dandy way and his cellphone in use. He will get no mercy. My friend walks toward him, forcing him to adjust his course, moving him closer and closer to the metal grate covering the hollow sidewalk. As the first wheel catches the elevated metal lip, a cry is heard. He sprawls on the sidewalk, keys, Palm Pilot and MP3 player clattering around him. Objects in motion will remain in motion...

"Fucking asshole," he yells from the ground, cellphone still in hand. But his heart isn't in it, and for a flickering instant it appears that he understands.