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TONIGHT, THE girls will get the opportunity to display their glittering potential by taking part in an off-the-cuff runway show. As the opening of the show draws near, there is something approaching real excitement in the room, especially among the parents. “I’m more nervous than she is,” says one woman, giggling. “She’s made me so proud,” says a grinning guy with a squirming daughter in tow. One gray-haired chap looks as though he’s just dipped his face in a bucket of red paint. It’s excruciating.

Before the girls can set foot on the catwalk, there are forms to be filled out and releases to be signed, one of which asks the girls to certify that they are female (“We’ve had a few drag queens,” says Howard). The parents watch this aspect of the competition with a mixture of solemn authority and relief. Form-signing, after all, is something they can understand. Otherwise, these moms and dads are themselves dealing with something new and frightening: parental impotence. Which doesn’t always stop them from trying to exert a little influence here and there.

“Sometimes you have to deal with a parent who’s more invested in the modeling than the daughter,” says Howard. “We’ve had parents calling the agency saying, ‘These people were obviously not paying attention. My daughter is stunning.’ I’ve had people follow me out into the parking lot with photos. There was a girl who went to a competition with her best friend and her best friend’s mother. When the friend wasn’t called back, the mother left the girl at the mall. Just left her there. She was 15 years old.”

Finally, the catwalk show is set to begin. Eight or so girls are ushered into the wings. You can almost hear the mantra going through their heads: “Step-step, swish-swish, step, stop, turn, strike a pose, swish-swish ... ” The protruding section of the runway is maybe three feet wide. It feels like the moment before a NASCAR race: Jesus, what if one of them crashes? Or, in this case, falls.

You have to pity the first girl to come out. For one thing, she’s the first. For another, before she walks the runway she must introduce herself to the crowd — “Hi, I’m Jill ... ” Alas, poor Jill, she’s got a dodgy mike, so her already faltering voice takes on another layer of panic. She sounds like someone delivering a guilty plea. “Let’s hear some love!” hollers Aisha, a phrase that will pass her shapely lips maybe 25 times over the course of the evening. The applause that greets this remark would be perfectly appropriate at a shuffleboard game, but here it sounds hollow. Jill’s subsequent catwalk is apprehensive — like an approach to the gallows. Dead Babe Walking.

In fairness to Jill, she’s not the only edgy strutter tonight. With the exception of a few pros, there is a barely concealed dread on all the girls’ faces. And the body language is even more explicit. The girls seem to be turning in on themselves — we could be at a bad-posture convention. Hands are knotted, hems are fiddled with, movements are mechanical: Step-step, swish-swish, step ... A few — those who totter along on alpine pumps or clump around in what appear to be construction boots — must be kicking themselves right about now. Or would be if they could. All the while, the parents maintain expressions of pained, sympathetic pride.

Weirdly, almost every girl who exits the catwalk denies feeling any nervousness whatsoever. “It was fun!” they say, or “What fun!” or simply “Fun!” By these standards, Christ’s walk to Calvary must have been an absolute blast. Finally, one honest hopeful looks me in the eye and confesses to having been “absolutely terrified.”

As the girls walk the walk, the judges huddle, shuffling headshots like Vegas dealers. They nod gravely and scribble notes. Decisions are being made, and for the life of me I can’t see how. According to Yuka, one of the judges, you know a winner as soon as you see her. A little bell goes off. I ask Yuka whether her decision will be swayed if a girl fits the current mold, if she has, for lack of a better word, the “in” look. “No,” she says. “Not at all.”

Nonetheless, one of the ironies of being a teenage modeling hopeful is that your rise to stardom depends largely on timing. There are clear-cut aesthetic cycles in the modeling industry: a few years back, women so thin their knees looked like little sacks of potatoes were hot; last year it was the Latina look; now it’s Belgian, whatever that means. And tomorrow? Well, that’s what tonight’s contestants are here to find out. It’s possible that one of them may even dictate what the next look will be. More likely, they will be subject to the vicissitudes of the industry.

Fact is, if you are a six-foot Amazon who blossoms when broom handles with tits are the rage, then you’re going to get less work than the broom handle. Simple as that. Which isn’t to say that the Amazon won’t find any work at all. Thanks to the ravenous appetite of today’s advertising and promotions industry, it’s getting to the point where practically any look can find a niche. If you are a little too tall, a little too thin, or a little too chunky, you might not make it into the Victoria’s Secret catalogue, but someone, somewhere, will be able to use your talents. If you don’t mind selling Swiss Army knives or the services of AOL.

But what about girls who are a little too, um, ugly?

“I’ve never told anyone to give up and try landscaping,” Howard says. “But we do say, ‘Listen, you may want to try acting, or doing what we do. You’re still traveling the world, but you’re not a talent, because you don’t have what the clients want.’” He adds, “I don’t want them to get into that thing where they spend thousands of dollars on modeling classes that aren’t on the up-and-up, being ripped off or being led on. So I guess I’d rather hurt their feelings now than see them broke or dejected later on.”

I look around Avalon for potential landscapers. Mostly, the girls are formidably beautiful. More impressive, perhaps, is the sheer range of beauty on display. There are African-American stunners, blond stunners, brunette stunners, Asian stunners. Some of the girls are angelic, some are athletic, some are sultry, and some are, well, sexy.

The prevailing dress style tonight tends towards tight-fitting pants and tops. It’s cold in the club, and more than once I find myself thinking “Ooh, high beams,” and then: “14! 14! 14!” This reaction points to the central, unsettling paradox of this model-search business: a lot of these girls are essentially children. You can use as many euphemisms as you like — glamour industry, fashion industry — but the modeling industry is largely about selling sex. To become a model, a 16-year-old girl must learn to behave like a sexually mature adult. And this is only a short step away from people treating her like a sexually mature adult.

Indeed, the industry is rife with tales of abuse. The Elite agency itself was the subject of an undercover BBC documentary a couple of years back that claimed to unearth evidence of drug use and sexual activity between high-ranking Elite employees and teenage models. Late last year, a 15-year-old (from another agency) was sexually abused in a Milan bathroom.

To avoid these kinds of situations, a young model must either have an adult chaperone with her at all times (a logistical nightmare) or leave her naïveté at home with her collection of butterfly barrettes. “These girls have to grow up pretty quickly,” says Howard. “A model has to be extremely comfortable with who she is. Little Suzie better know who she is, because if she doesn’t then the people in this industry will eat Suzie alive.”

And yet, of course, not many of tonight’s contestants are likely to find themselves in Milan. For most of the girls here, the prospect of being eaten alive in faraway places is the stuff of pure fantasy — like flying on a magic carpet or marrying Prince William. The only thing most of these girls are worried about — tonight, anyway — is remaining undiscovered. And not only for tonight, but forever. As Fred Howard puts it, “A lot of girls who are the prettiest girl on the block peak at being the prettiest girl on the block.”

Yikes.

BEFORE THE judges make their final decision, a handful of girls are asked to step back onto the stage. Even though they have risen to the rank of finalists, they look as awkward and self-conscious as ever. Meanwhile, the world-weariness of the crowd reaches new heights. Many girls seem to have made a point of keeping their backs to the stage as the process enters its final phase.

And then the decision is made: Indeya Beebath, a svelte (or scrawny), dark-skinned 14-year-old, is named the winner. In her swimsuit shots, Indeya looks like an absolute babe. Now, as the attention of photographers and reporters descends upon her, she looks more like a baby. “I’m very excited,” she says, grimacing. The other girls make a beeline for the club’s doors — arms folded, shoulders rounded — pretty much ignoring the winner. “I’m disappointed,” says one, but she could be talking about having just missed a bus.

Then again, maybe she doesn’t have that much to be disappointed about. An also-ran in last year’s competition — Jessica Lindsay — has spent the past year doing shoots in Paris, Milan, and New York. “She’s working more than the girl who won,” says Fred Howard. In fact, he continues, “I don’t even remember the other girl’s name.”

Chris Wright can be reached at cwright[a]phx.com.