Read Online My Life in Black and White by Natasha Friend - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Natasha Friend
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with a computer can make a business card.”
“Ruth,” my mother said.
But my father nodded his approval. “Another great point.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
It was almost comical, like watching a three-way tennis match. My mother would serve up something along the lines of “Modeling is a wonderful way for Alexa to earn money for college,” and my dad would hit back with “She’s only fourteen.” Then, out of nowhere, Ruthie would drop some gem: “You know, Mom … Charles Manson had a camera.”
Finally, dinner ended. But my mother’s campaign continued. She hung the framed photos of me on the wall outside my father’s study. She told him to run a background check on Zander Kent. She clipped out articles bemoaning the rising costs of a private, four-year college education. In short, the woman was relentless. And eventually, she wore my father down. So the two of them came up with a compromise: in nine months, when I turned fifteen, my mother could take me into the city to Zander Kent’s studio, to have professional photos taken. Head shots, not body shots. After that, we would discuss— as a family —the next course of action.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about this. I knew how keyed up my mother was, and I didn’t want to disappoint her. Plus, if I was really honest with myself, a part of me was just as excited. Because … what if I ended up on the cover of Seventeen some day? Or Elle ? Then I remembered Taylor, how weird she’d been about the whole thing. How afterward, whenever she was at my house and walking by my dad’s study, she’d pretend not to notice the photos of me at the Met.
But as the months went by, I stopped thinking about Taylor’s role in my decision. The two of us had been having a blast, riding the wave of our ninth-grade popularity all the way to graduation. Two weeks before school let out, I turned fifteen. And my mom called Zander Kent to book an appointment. And I thought, Well, what Taylor doesn’t know won’t hurt her. I decided I wouldn’t say a word unless something huge happened, like me on the cover of Vogue . If I made it that far, wouldn’t my best friend be happy for me? And if she wasn’t, I could always blame my mother. This whole thing was, after all, her idea.
So my conscience was clear. I allowed myself to embrace the prospect of a real, in-studio photo shoot. Zander Kent was an amazing fashion photographer, and my mother was beyond thrilled to act as my agent. Together, the three of us would work to ensure that my future was bright and all my dreams would come true.
Okay, maybe that’s laying it on a bit thick, but let’s just say things were looking up. Until the night of Jarrod’s party, that is. When, you know, small detail: My face became roadkill.
Make Yourself Comfortable
I CAME OUT of the graft surgery with cottonmouth and a crazy dream in my head. I dreamt that I ran into Zander Kent in the art room of my old elementary school. He was wearing a beret, and instead of a camera in his hands, he held a paintbrush. Standing beside him, at one of those miniature kindergarten easels, was Ryan. They were discussing a work of art. I moved in closer, to get a better look. It was a portrait—a girl’s face—but the closer I got, the weirder it looked. One eye on her forehead, another on her neck. A nose without nostrils. Her skin, a nonsensical jumble of colors and textures that shifted like beads in a kaleidoscope.
Dude, Dream Ryan said, shaking his head. Girlfriend is messed up .
Oh no, my boy, Dream Zander Kent replied. That. Is art.
The next week brought more pain meds, not just for my face, but also for the graft site—the place on my butt where the skin had been removed. Now, whenever the nurses came to check on me, they weren’t just looking at my face, they were looking at my bare behind. It was humiliating.
There were also more balloons, more flowers, more boxes of candy to eat, more stupid cards to tape on the wall. And a
“Ruth,” my mother said.
But my father nodded his approval. “Another great point.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
It was almost comical, like watching a three-way tennis match. My mother would serve up something along the lines of “Modeling is a wonderful way for Alexa to earn money for college,” and my dad would hit back with “She’s only fourteen.” Then, out of nowhere, Ruthie would drop some gem: “You know, Mom … Charles Manson had a camera.”
Finally, dinner ended. But my mother’s campaign continued. She hung the framed photos of me on the wall outside my father’s study. She told him to run a background check on Zander Kent. She clipped out articles bemoaning the rising costs of a private, four-year college education. In short, the woman was relentless. And eventually, she wore my father down. So the two of them came up with a compromise: in nine months, when I turned fifteen, my mother could take me into the city to Zander Kent’s studio, to have professional photos taken. Head shots, not body shots. After that, we would discuss— as a family —the next course of action.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about this. I knew how keyed up my mother was, and I didn’t want to disappoint her. Plus, if I was really honest with myself, a part of me was just as excited. Because … what if I ended up on the cover of Seventeen some day? Or Elle ? Then I remembered Taylor, how weird she’d been about the whole thing. How afterward, whenever she was at my house and walking by my dad’s study, she’d pretend not to notice the photos of me at the Met.
But as the months went by, I stopped thinking about Taylor’s role in my decision. The two of us had been having a blast, riding the wave of our ninth-grade popularity all the way to graduation. Two weeks before school let out, I turned fifteen. And my mom called Zander Kent to book an appointment. And I thought, Well, what Taylor doesn’t know won’t hurt her. I decided I wouldn’t say a word unless something huge happened, like me on the cover of Vogue . If I made it that far, wouldn’t my best friend be happy for me? And if she wasn’t, I could always blame my mother. This whole thing was, after all, her idea.
So my conscience was clear. I allowed myself to embrace the prospect of a real, in-studio photo shoot. Zander Kent was an amazing fashion photographer, and my mother was beyond thrilled to act as my agent. Together, the three of us would work to ensure that my future was bright and all my dreams would come true.
Okay, maybe that’s laying it on a bit thick, but let’s just say things were looking up. Until the night of Jarrod’s party, that is. When, you know, small detail: My face became roadkill.
Make Yourself Comfortable
I CAME OUT of the graft surgery with cottonmouth and a crazy dream in my head. I dreamt that I ran into Zander Kent in the art room of my old elementary school. He was wearing a beret, and instead of a camera in his hands, he held a paintbrush. Standing beside him, at one of those miniature kindergarten easels, was Ryan. They were discussing a work of art. I moved in closer, to get a better look. It was a portrait—a girl’s face—but the closer I got, the weirder it looked. One eye on her forehead, another on her neck. A nose without nostrils. Her skin, a nonsensical jumble of colors and textures that shifted like beads in a kaleidoscope.
Dude, Dream Ryan said, shaking his head. Girlfriend is messed up .
Oh no, my boy, Dream Zander Kent replied. That. Is art.
The next week brought more pain meds, not just for my face, but also for the graft site—the place on my butt where the skin had been removed. Now, whenever the nurses came to check on me, they weren’t just looking at my face, they were looking at my bare behind. It was humiliating.
There were also more balloons, more flowers, more boxes of candy to eat, more stupid cards to tape on the wall. And a
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