Paint Me Beautiful

slightly to look at him. My stomach is twisting and clenching, giving me the world's worst cramps. I fight them back and try to ignore Emmett as he balances his tray from one hand to the other. “Sounds tragic, don't you think?”
    “ Mm hmm,” I say, but I'm not trying to be rude. I'm not trying to be anything. I just want to get through this with a nod or a smile from the panel of men and women that sit behind that long table and stare. I want one, just one, of them to come up to me and say, Wow, Claire, you are it. You are the next big thing. I don't think I can handle anymore rejection. This is my fifth casting this week, and if I don't sign with an agency soon, my mother is going to really set in on me about choosing a different career path.
    The line scoots forward and Emmett follows. His samples are melting, but I don't think he cares. This guy is really into me, I think, but I can't be happy about that because it's almost my turn to walk. My runway walk is not my best attribute. I take great pictures though. At least, I've been told that before. I'm both commercial and high fashion say the agencies who never sign me. I sigh and shift my portfolio from one arm to the other.
    “ Is this for America's Next Top Model ?” he asks, and I don't sigh or roll my eyes like the girl in front of me does. I smile softly and shake my head.
    “ Not quite, no,” I say, and Emmett nods. His brown eyes are curious though, but he can tell I'm way too deep into this right now to flirt with him, so he takes a step back.
    “ Good luck, Claire,” he tells me and moves over to a table to sit down. I wonder what his boss at the Super Smoothie thinks about that, but I can't really focus on him right now. I need to keep myself focused. Think tall, think pretty, think perfect. I swallow hard and close my eyes for a second to get control over myself.
    “ Next.”
    That one word, so simple, draws me forward with the skinny redhead and the girl between us, the one that I think is pretty, but is too short. Agencies don't like short. They don't like fat either, so I make a point to suck in my stomach as I approach the butcher paper and step onto it, unconsciously memorizing the rips and tears, so I don't have to look down while I'm walking. That's the sign of a real, true supermodel.
    I lay my portfolio down slowly, purposely letting the other girls set theirs down first. These people have been staring at pretty pictures all day, and they don't have the time nor the patience to sit and examine each one. If they're only going to glance at one of our portfolios, I want it to be mine. I feel bad for the other two girls, but I've had worse done to me, so I decide this is just karma. The redhead looks familiar to me anyhow, and I wouldn't be surprised if she'd sabotaged me before.
    “ Set up at the end of the runway, please. Hold your pose and turn back. When you're finished, please come back up and grab your portfolios. We'll call you.” The woman who's speaking sounds bored and looks it, too. Her eyes take us all in, judge us in a split second. She doesn't need to see us walk; she already knows, and I can tell she doesn't like me. It's because I'm so fat. That's why. I feel so guilty over the food I ate last night that it makes me sick. I had cheese. I shouldn't have had cheese.
    I march to the end of the runway and spin, letting my hair flow out behind me. I have nice hair; I've always had nice hair. Unfortunately, with extensions and weaves and all that, it doesn't really matter. Hair is fixable. Fat is not – not on a runway. I try to tell myself that I look good, that I look professional. I've got on new skinny jeans, new shoes, just a bit of light foundation. I look polished.
    It's not enough.
    The woman at the end of the panel motions for us to move forward, and we do, in perfect unison I might add. At first, the short girl keeps up with us, but soon, our long legs move the redhead and I past her. I make sure to swing my arms a bit, but not too much. I don't want to look like an ape. My strides are long and graceful and my eyes are focused on a man with a goatee who I think might be straight. You never know in this industry, but it's worth a try. I could never do anything like sleep my way to the top, but if it's just a bit of eye contact, that's okay.
    I pause, put one hand on my hip and tilt my chest side to side, popping my shoulder forward and my ass back, just enough so that I look shapely, but not too shapely. I've been