Paint Me Beautiful

 
     
     
     

     

    All journeys have to start somewhere.
    In my experience, they usually begin where you least expect them, peeping out from behind corners and under rugs. They grab you by the ankle and take you to places you'd never thought you'd go, and they don't care if you're already heading somewhere, if you've already mapped out your future. When fate takes control, you can either ride with it or fight against it. I chose to fight, but we'll talk about that later. For now, let's talk about Emmett Sinclair.
    He's tall, almost as tall as me when I'm wearing my best heels. He has these eyes that can pierce your soul if you let them, like he's just in tune with the universe and everything in it. Maybe that's how he spotted me, chose me, made me the center of his world? I guess I'll never know because the day he first notices me, I barely even see him.
    I'm standing in line with a group of pretty girls. They've all got perfect hair and perfect teeth and smooth skin, like cream or cocoa or bronze. I'm comparing myself to every single one of them, starting with the blonde in front and working my way back. I am so out of my league, I think as I examine the redhead two ahead of me in line. She's at least ten pounds thinner than I am and she has this lanky-pretty quality that I've seen in a lot of magazines lately, like she was born skinny, not made skinny.
    I adjust the straps of my tank top and hope I look appropriate. My blonde hair is slicked back into a ponytail and I've got on a pair of size two jeans. I wish they were smaller. In fact, I'm utterly convinced that I'm going to be passed over because I'm too fat. I made the journey out here anyway. It was either that or sit at home and make peanut butter cookies with my mom, defend myself for not wanting to taste something made with two sticks of butter. I shift back and forth as a murmur passes down the line of girls.
    “ No thank you,” they're all saying. I turn around and find a boy. It's Emmett Sinclair, but I don't know that yet, not until he gets to me with a red tray in his hand and a black beanie on his head. Tufts of chestnut hair stick out in random places, just enough that it gives him this messy-cute look. Any longer and he'd look scruffy, but he's clean shaven and his shirt is crisp and clean. He's also wearing a red apron with a Super Smoothie logo on it.
    “ Good afternoon,” he says, and the words come out of my mouth automatically.
    “ No thank you.” I can't drink one of those cups, not when I'm seconds away from finding out if my destiny is in reach, if I'll be one of those girls that you hear about, the ones that get discovered in a mall. They start in modeling and work their way up to TV, film, music. A triple threat they used to call them – dance, act, sing – but the stakes are even higher now. To be that girl, the one that they all look at, that they all want to be, you have to be beautiful, more beautiful than they are because it's the only way you'll stand out.
    “ Are you sure?” he asks, and in his voice, I can see that he's trying to flirt with me.
    He's cute, so I say, “Catch me after this? My stomach's in knots, and I can't think straight.” I don't have time for cute, but there it is.
    “ Emmett Sinclair,” he says, and he doesn't move away. I smile nice and tight, but I can't stop looking at the girls that are walking down the faux runway they've set up in the middle of the food court with butcher paper. It's been taped to the linoleum floor nice and tight, but it's not enough to keep the stilettos from tearing it here and there as the girls stomp their way down to the end, pose, and turn. “Your turn,” the boy continues and although I'm barely listening to him, I respond.
    “ Claire,” I say. “Claire Simone.” Emmett chuckles and tugs down the front of his beanie. He's totally feeling me now, but I barely see him. I see long legs and skinny bodies and desperation that mirrors my own. God, they want this so bad. Almost as much as I want it. Almost. Nobody wants this like I do. I want to be seen; I want to be beautiful. I want to be that girl that other girls look at and wish they were. Why? I don't know. I'm not a ward of the state or a victim of abuse or anything like that. I'm a girl with two loving parents and a big sister who's sweet, if a bit pushy. Something inside of me just wants to be seen, and there's nothing wrong with that, is there?
    “ Sinclair and Simone,” Emmett says, and I turn my face