“This is all today?” As I scanned the sheet, I counted seven different meetings. Scattered throughout the area.
She smiled at me like I was teasing her, then she held out the black folder. “This is the portfolio we put together after your photo shoot last month. There aren’t a lot of shots, but we’ll schedule another one soon to build up your portfolio.”
Taking the folder, I flipped through a couple of pages. When I’d signed with K&M last month, their scout had a photographer do a simple shoot back in Omaha. A couple beauty shots, one profile, and a few full-body ones. Jeans, T-shirt, heels, hardly any makeup or posing. I didn’t look like a model in my portfolio, or at least not how I pictured one, but I knew that was the point. The clients wanted to see a blank canvas, not one already drawn and marked all over.
“I just need to double-check your measurements to make sure there are no surprises there.” The girl whipped a fabric tape measure out of her pocket and cinched it around my waist first. When I lifted my arms, she moved to my bust, then finished with my hips. After checking the measurements included inside my portfolio, she nodded. “You’re all set.”
When she started back toward her desk, I clutched my schedule and portfolio close to my chest. “So that’s it? Off I go?”
She rolled the tape measure back up, appraising me like I was every bit as naïve as I felt at the moment. “That’s it. If any of the clients you meet with today decide to book you, they’ll contact us, then we’ll contact you. I’ll have a fresh list of go-sees for you tomorrow as well. I can email them to you, or you can pick up the schedule here again in the morning.”
“I’ll pick them up,” I said, because I might have had an email address, but I didn’t have a way to access that email at the moment. “Thank you for everything.”
Her face softened a little, giving me the impression gratitude wasn’t a regular sort of thing around here. That soft look faded as soon as the phone rang. Talk about wearing multiple hats—that poor girl looked done and it wasn’t even nine yet.
After climbing onto the elevator, I checked the address of my first meeting. It wasn’t until ten, which gave me time to slow down and put together a plan. I would be on foot all day. I’d already accepted that. My goal was to plan my trips as efficiently as possible, but as I read the seven different addresses, I didn’t have any idea if any of the streets were close together or on opposite ends of the city.
Crossing my fingers, I approached the desk at the first-floor entrance. “Excuse me, sir?” As soon as the man at the desk glanced up, I continued. “You wouldn’t happen to have a street map of the city, would you? One of those touristy ones that make it simple enough to understand that a small child could navigate the streets successfully?”
The elderly man gave me an amused look, then something dawned on his face when he noticed the black portfolio clutched in my hands. Reaching inside one of the desk drawers, he pulled out something. “Must be your lucky day.”
He winked as he set a brochure in front of me. Sure enough, it was one of those maps made for the navigation-impaired tourists swarming the city. Or in this case, the small-town rookie model who was attempting to traverse her new home.
“Thank you.” It came out sounding like he’d just saved my life instead of handing me some free paper map, but I felt like he kind of had saved my life.
Taking a seat on one of the benches beside the doors, I scanned the map for a few minutes, familiarizing myself with the streets. Then I pulled a pen out of my purse and circled the general areas I had appointments at, along with numbering them based on time. None of the appointments were way on the outskirts of the city, thank goodness. There must have been a centralized fashion part of the city.
The trek to my first appointment looked like it would take the longest, so I started moving that direction, pausing every few blocks to check the map to make sure I hadn’t gotten turned around. The sidewalks weren’t quite as busy as earlier, but there were still swarms of people moving along them.
This was all so different from where I’d come from. The noises, the sights, the people, the smells—I wasn’t sure two places could be as opposite as New York City and Hastings. Even though I’d spent my whole life in one town, this place had an odd sense of home. An air of belonging. Everything was new, but it had a familiarity—like I’d experienced it in another life.
New York City. The place that was home to millions, yet it felt like it was all my own at the same time.
By the time I made it to the address for my first go-see, my feet were numb. I couldn’t tell if that was from the cold or the walking. Tomorrow, I was definitely bringing sneakers to change into for my biped commuting.
Zelda Zhou was the name of the client. From what I recalled from scouring endless magazines, she was an up-and-coming designer known for courageous use of color and unapologetic attitude toward mixing patterns. At least that was how I recalled the writer describing her designs in last month’s Mode.
As soon as I stepped inside her shop, I felt like I’d been transported into some psychedelic hippie rebirth. Coming from the monochromatic streets outside, it took me a moment to adjust to all of the color inside the studio.
Similar to K&M’s, there was a reception desk and a young lady working it, but she was dressed like she was auditioning for the circus. When she noticed me, she adjusted the feather boa on her neck. “Her Highness will here shortly. Please take a seat.” The girl pointed her long, neon green fingernail at a few beanbags shoved against a wall. Two of them were already taken.
The fashion world—designers especially—were a unique bunch. A breed that embraced the freak-flag-flying motto. As “vanilla” as I considered myself when it came to my own inner freak, I loved the whole creed. Be yourself. Whoever that is. To whatever extent that was. Individuality was frowned upon in Hastings, at least in its extreme cases. But here, it seemed to be celebrated.
The two girls sitting on beanbags were talking, clearly about me. When I dropped onto the beanbag beside one of them, she twisted toward me.
“We were just taking guesses,” she explained, glancing at the way I was clutching my portfolio to my chest. “On what number go-see this is for you.”
The girl beside her leaned forward and waved at me. “She thinks it’s your third. I say it’s your first.”
Okay, first model-y-model run-in. I’d read the horror stories, of course, but I was determined to approach this new life with a give-the-benefit-of-the-doubt philosophy. Neither of them were giving me serious side-eye, and they’d been upfront about what they’d been whispering over.
“It’s my first.”
The girl two beanbags down thrust her arms up in victory.
“What number go-see is this for you guys?” I asked.
The girl beside me lifted a dark eyebrow. “The number So-Many-I’ve-Lost -Count.”
“That’s because she’s ancient.” The other girl pointed at the corner of the girl’s eye, but I didn’t see a single wrinkle.
She shoved her “friend’s” finger away. “Twenty-two is not ancient.”
“It is if you’re Her Highness Zhou. If you don’t look fourteen, she’ll toss you out the back door like last season’s designer handbag.”
It felt like these two were just getting started, so I cleared my throat. “I’m Hayden. I just moved here a whole . . .” Checking my watch, I did some quick mental math. “Fifteen hours ago.”
“Hey, I’m Ariel, and this is Jane,” the girl next to me said. “She’s a plus-size model.”
“You hear that note of bitterness?” Jane leaned farther forward so she could look at me. “It’s because having no fat on one’s body turns a person into a miserable bitch.”
Ariel’s eyebrows lifted. “And who’s had more boyfriends in the past two years?”
“You.” Jane motioned at her like she was accusing her of something. “Because I’m not looking for a boyfriend. Why would I want one of those when I can have a new boy-toy in my bed eve
ry night of the week?”
“You sure they’re not just hanging around one night because in the morning when they sober up, the beer goggles from the night before fall off?”
Jane didn’t look the least bit insulted, leading me to the impression these two had plenty of experience giving each other a hard time. “You know what’s another side effect of no body fat? Diminished sex drive. Might be why Jon’s right hand’s been looking extra soft and supple lately.”
Ariel elbowed Jane as she crossed her arms. I stayed quiet, because that seemed like the safest option.
“She’s my best friend,” Jane explained, tipping her head at Ariel. “We give each other a lot of shit, but it’s all in love. Plus, it makes anything nasty these designers or photographers say about us seem like positive affirmations in comparison.”
“Is that why you came home and bawled after your last photo shoot and the photographer said you looked like you’d been stuffed with cottage cheese the day you were created?”
“Oh, please. Kind of like the day you came home ugly-crying because a designer said you walked the runway like a methed-out drag queen?”
Again, I stayed quiet. It seemed like the safest option.
“Clearly we’re in need of extensive psychological help,” Jane said when she noticed me kind of gaping at them. “But this industry is all rejection for the most part. You have to grow a thick skin and make some good friends to kick you in the ass every now and again when you need it. I’d have given up years ago if it wasn’t for Ariel reminding me why I got into modeling, and that a rejection from a designer didn’t mean I needed to reject myself.” Jane motioned at her own frame. “Because I’m a glorious beast, darling.” She instantly lifted her pointer finger at Ariel. “And don’t you go adding nothing about having the beast part right at least.”
Ariel shifted on her puce beanbag, checking the trippy clock on the wall. “What agency are you with?”
“K&M,” I answered.
They both gave an impressed look.
“I used to be with K&M until I started photographing too ‘old.’” Ariel stuck out her tongue. “Now I’m with a different agency.”
“One that specializes in the special needs of our senior citizens.” Jane dodged Ariel’s elbow just in time.
“Who’s your agent?” Ariel asked.
“Mr. Lawson,” I said, not knowing his first name. I had yet to meet him, since I’d signed on with the scout who’d discovered me.
Ariel’s and Jane’s heads twisted my way, their eyes scanning me in a new light.
“Ellis Lawson is your agent?” Jane said.
“Yeah?”
“Holy shit.” Jane reached across Ariel to grab my arm. “Ellis Lawson is a god. The Modeling God.”
My nose wrinkled. I knew he was one of the partners of the agency, but I’d only recently found out he’d be my agent. “He is?”
“You want to know how a model becomes a supermodel?” When my shoulder lifted, Jane added, “Ellis Lawson. That’s how. Dude, he’s responsible for churning out more supermodels than any other agent out there.”
“He’s also known for doing more supermodels than any other man alive.”
Jane rolled her eyes at Ariel before giving me a serious look. “That’s his other reputation. He’s a bit of a ladies’ man.”
“And by ‘a bit,’ she means the toilet seats inside the public restrooms at Grand Central don’t get as much ass as Ellis Lawson.”
My face drew up. “Wow. Could have done without that vivid mental gem.”
“If he decided to be your agent, you’re going to be big. Huge.” Jane shifted her beanbag so we were in more of a circle than a line. “Hey, we should swap phone numbers. You’re new in town, probably looking to make some new friends.” She pulled her phone out of her clutch. “We’re the best type of friends you can find in this city.”
“And she doesn’t only say that because we have connections to get into the hippest clubs in the city,” Ariel added.
“I mean because we keep it real.” Jane punched a few things into her phone. “In an industry full of phonies and fakes, you need friends who tell it like it is. We’re really good at telling it like it is.”
I returned Jane’s smile. “I noticed that.”
“So? What are your digits?”
“Actually, I don’t have a phone yet. I plan on getting one, but I am currently digit-less.”
Jane and Ariel gaped at me.
“No phone?” Ariel sounded as though I’d just told her I had a month to live.
When I shrugged, Jane pulled an old gum wrapper from her purse, along with a pen, and wrote down some numbers. “Well, here’s my number. Once you get one of those phone things, you know how to reach me.” She winked as she dropped the wrapper into my palm. “Us small-town girls need to stick together.”
“How do you know—”
“It’s that wholesome thing you have going on.” Jane’s finger circled my face.
Ariel huffed. “If wholesome’s the definition of ‘small town,’ you sure as hell weren’t born and raised in one.”
Jane’s hand dropped to her curvy hip. “Just because I like entertaining gentlemen in my bed on a regular basis doesn’t mean I’m not wholesome.”
“My bad. I thought it meant you were a promiscuous lush.”
Jane was ready to fire something back when the studio door burst open and a blinding mass of color and movement whisked toward us.
“Your Highness.” The girl behind the desk came rushing out, automatically holding her arms out to take the woman’s coat and purse.
Zelda Zhou, aka Her Highness, screamed to a stop in front of the three of us situated on the beanbags. She was barely pushing five foot, but I felt like she was towering above me. She was dressed to blind. And shock. And wow. She looked like she’d just come from Mardi Gras and was on her way to Carnival.
Her finger lifted. “Too top-heavy,” she said of Jane, moving on to Ariel. “Too old.” When her finger landed on me, she paused. I resisted the instinct to cower and expose my throat. “How old are you?”
Instead of flinching from her terse voice, I sat up straighter. “Nineteen.”
Jane and Ariel were already moving toward the door, but they waved bye before leaving.
“How tall?”
“Five eleven and a half,” I answered, standing when she motioned me up with a flick of her wrist.
She scanned me up and down. “Measurements?”
“Thirty-four twenty-five thirty-four.”
The corners of her mouth sank even lower as her appraisal paused at my midsection. I’d never been as self-conscious about that part of my body as I became right then.
“Your waist is too big for the dress I have in mind for you.” Her eyes lifted to meet mine. “Can you lose two inches off your waist by next week?”
“Maybe if I don’t eat,” I answered with a smile, joking.
She nodded, like she assumed I was being serious about starving myself for a week to lose two inches off an already small waist.
“Probably not,” I added, holding out my portfolio for her.
She didn’t take it. She just turned and marched away, her clothes causing a racket as she moved. “Okay, come back and see me when you have an actual model’s waist that will fit into an actual sample-size couture gown.”
I stood where I was for a good minute after she’d disappeared, blinking at the spot she’d last stood in. This was my very first go-see and I’d bombed it because what? I was too big? My waist was too fat? Good grief, how could it get any smaller without removing some non-essential organs?
Part of me wanted to cry. The other part reminded me that rejection was part of the business and to log this first one in the books and keep going. Checking my next appointment’s address—it was at eleven—I consulted the map for a moment to make sure I knew where I was going, then I left Zelda Zhou’s studio with a flourish.
Someone really needed to tell her that it di
dn’t matter how “bold” the industry had deemed you, it should still be considered high treason in the fashion world to mix a chevron skirt with a paisley blouse.
The rest of the day continued in a similar fashion—at least in the sense of it being unusual and surprising. I thought I’d known all about how eccentric the fashion world was—I’d been reading about it since the first time I opened a fashion magazine at the age of seven—but reading about it was entirely different from being thrown into the three-ring circus with them.
Some clients treated me like I was the sibling they had been separated from at birth, and some behaved like I was no more human than the cell phone glued to their hand. Some wanted me to walk, some asked me to pose, only a couple actually glanced through my portfolio, but all of them were what I’d classify as supremely unique. I didn’t know if I’d booked any jobs, but I definitely knew I hadn’t booked a couple.
By the time I left the studio of my last go-see a little after seven, I was so tired I was half tempted to curl up in one of the lounge chairs inside the women’s restroom waiting area and fall asleep. The bathroom was warm, and the thought of taking to the streets in my heels again, finding a subway station, and praying I made it back to the apartment felt like being tasked with solving the equation for nuclear fusion.
With the help of a few strangers, and a whole lot of help from luck, I somehow managed to make it back to my new apartment building. Before I climbed the stairs to the sixth floor, I took off my heels. When I glanced down to see the damage, I winced. I’d rubbed a few blisters raw, and my feet looked like I was nine months pregnant in the dead of summer. Swollen, blistered, and red. Hopefully no one wanted to book me for a barefoot photo shoot.
After I walked up six flights of stairs, I pulled out the key Soren had given me earlier, unlocked the door, and walked (hobbled) inside.
“Hello?” None of the lights were on inside, but it didn’t feel right to just come in without announcing myself first. This might have been my apartment now too, but I still felt like the stranger. “Soren, are you here?”
When there was no answer, I flipped on some lights. I should have just left them off. The apartment looked like someone had held a party and invited the whole city. Clothes were strewn around, dirty dishes were scattered everywhere but inside the sink, and junk was littered between the rest of it. I’d only been gone a day, right? This morning, the place had been mostly tidy. How had it gone from that to this in ten hours?