Leslie discovered you at the Dean and DeLuca. How very Lana Turner at Schwab’s.”
“Who?” I asked. The question jumped out of my mouth before I could stop it.
Caroline just laughed. “How old are you, Bee?”
“Seventeen.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a student at Columbia.”
Leslie smiled. “So you’re smart. Miuccia Prada likes smart. What are you studying at Columbia?”
“I’m premed,” I said. Not adding that I was going to be pre–Cinnabon employee of the month if I didn’t get my act together and pull up my grades.
Caroline said, “Very impressive. So why do you want to be a model?”
I thought then of all the girls I’d seen who had left the office, fighting back tears. This must be where it all falls apart. They ask you a question. You give them the wrong answer, and they send you on your way. Somehow, I sensed that “I don’t know. I never wanted to be a model” was the wrong answer. I thought about what Aunt Zo always said about her auditions—you’ve got to be hungry. You can’t have a backup plan. So I just started making stuff up.
“I never see girls in ads that look like me,” I said, which was true. “In my high school, they had to replace the plumbing in the girls’ bathroom because so many girls were throwing up, the acid was actually eating away at the pipes.”
This, as a matter of fact, was also true.
Leslie nodded. “So you’re comfortable with your shape?”
“Absolutely,” I said, semi-lying now.
“What if we needed you to lose a few pounds, just to tone up a little?” Caroline asked.
Again, another trick question. Was I supposed to stick to my guns, in a “fat is a feminist issue” kind of way? Or should I be flexible?
“I think exercise is good for everyone,” I said. Then kicked myself. What must I have sounded like? A robotic candidate for Miss America?
Leslie stood up. “Let’s Polaroid you, Bee.” She took a camera off her desk, stood me against the wall.
I did a big old Kool-Aid smile.
Leslie said, “A little less teeth, Bee.”
I turned it down a notch. She snapped my picture.
“Now closed mouth. Thoughtful.”
I thought about Brian.
“Thoughtful happy, not thoughtful sad, Bee.”
I thought about salsa dancing with Chela’s friends at the Copa.
“Very pretty,” Leslie said, and snapped my picture again.
Caroline said, “Now, let’s see you walk.”
I walked across the room.
I did it badly. I knew it right away from the look on Caroline and Leslie’s faces.
“Can you try the walk again, Bee?” Caroline said. “This time, pretend that your favorite music is on.”
“Don’t be shy, Bee,” Leslie said. “Pretend we’re not even here. You’re out with your friends on a Saturday night.”
“Do you ,” Chela had said. But I knew at that moment, what I needed to do was Chela, strutting onto the dance floor at the Copa. I summoned all the South Bronx and South Philly I had ever seen and I shook my hips as I walked across the room.
Leslie and Caroline were both smiling, but I couldn’t tell if it was a real smile or a fake smile.
“That was really fun, Bee,” Leslie said. “Thank you.”
Then she looked down at her desk and started writing. I wasn’t sure whether I should wait or leave.
“Should I go?” I said.
“We’ll call you if we’re interested,” Caroline said. She was texting on her BlackBerry, and she didn’t look up either.
I walked out of the office, knowing now why some girls looked like they wanted to cry. The whole “Don’t call us, we’ll call you” thing was pretty brutal.
Chela gave me a thumbs-up, then a thumbs-down. I just shrugged. We walked to the elevator in silence.
“You got the job?” she asked me once we were out on the street.
“I have no idea,” I said.
“Did they give you any hints?” she said.
“Not a one. They said they’d call me if they were interested.”
“Well, that sucks.” She looked indignant.
I thought, She doesn’t know the half of
“Who?” I asked. The question jumped out of my mouth before I could stop it.
Caroline just laughed. “How old are you, Bee?”
“Seventeen.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a student at Columbia.”
Leslie smiled. “So you’re smart. Miuccia Prada likes smart. What are you studying at Columbia?”
“I’m premed,” I said. Not adding that I was going to be pre–Cinnabon employee of the month if I didn’t get my act together and pull up my grades.
Caroline said, “Very impressive. So why do you want to be a model?”
I thought then of all the girls I’d seen who had left the office, fighting back tears. This must be where it all falls apart. They ask you a question. You give them the wrong answer, and they send you on your way. Somehow, I sensed that “I don’t know. I never wanted to be a model” was the wrong answer. I thought about what Aunt Zo always said about her auditions—you’ve got to be hungry. You can’t have a backup plan. So I just started making stuff up.
“I never see girls in ads that look like me,” I said, which was true. “In my high school, they had to replace the plumbing in the girls’ bathroom because so many girls were throwing up, the acid was actually eating away at the pipes.”
This, as a matter of fact, was also true.
Leslie nodded. “So you’re comfortable with your shape?”
“Absolutely,” I said, semi-lying now.
“What if we needed you to lose a few pounds, just to tone up a little?” Caroline asked.
Again, another trick question. Was I supposed to stick to my guns, in a “fat is a feminist issue” kind of way? Or should I be flexible?
“I think exercise is good for everyone,” I said. Then kicked myself. What must I have sounded like? A robotic candidate for Miss America?
Leslie stood up. “Let’s Polaroid you, Bee.” She took a camera off her desk, stood me against the wall.
I did a big old Kool-Aid smile.
Leslie said, “A little less teeth, Bee.”
I turned it down a notch. She snapped my picture.
“Now closed mouth. Thoughtful.”
I thought about Brian.
“Thoughtful happy, not thoughtful sad, Bee.”
I thought about salsa dancing with Chela’s friends at the Copa.
“Very pretty,” Leslie said, and snapped my picture again.
Caroline said, “Now, let’s see you walk.”
I walked across the room.
I did it badly. I knew it right away from the look on Caroline and Leslie’s faces.
“Can you try the walk again, Bee?” Caroline said. “This time, pretend that your favorite music is on.”
“Don’t be shy, Bee,” Leslie said. “Pretend we’re not even here. You’re out with your friends on a Saturday night.”
“Do you ,” Chela had said. But I knew at that moment, what I needed to do was Chela, strutting onto the dance floor at the Copa. I summoned all the South Bronx and South Philly I had ever seen and I shook my hips as I walked across the room.
Leslie and Caroline were both smiling, but I couldn’t tell if it was a real smile or a fake smile.
“That was really fun, Bee,” Leslie said. “Thank you.”
Then she looked down at her desk and started writing. I wasn’t sure whether I should wait or leave.
“Should I go?” I said.
“We’ll call you if we’re interested,” Caroline said. She was texting on her BlackBerry, and she didn’t look up either.
I walked out of the office, knowing now why some girls looked like they wanted to cry. The whole “Don’t call us, we’ll call you” thing was pretty brutal.
Chela gave me a thumbs-up, then a thumbs-down. I just shrugged. We walked to the elevator in silence.
“You got the job?” she asked me once we were out on the street.
“I have no idea,” I said.
“Did they give you any hints?” she said.
“Not a one. They said they’d call me if they were interested.”
“Well, that sucks.” She looked indignant.
I thought, She doesn’t know the half of
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