Paint Me Beautiful

loose swish of chiffon, but when I reach down to the side zipper, it's a bit difficult to get it over my hips. My heart sinks to my stomach, and I feel ill with disgust. I'm too fucking fat for this dress, I think as I manage to get the zipper up without Lianna seeing my struggle. She's scanning through my pictures with a quirky smile on her face. Things are going well.
    “ This dress is from my new line,” she says, surprising me. I hadn't known Lianna was a designer. Apparently, when she looks up at me, that fear is written across my face. I wore Burberry and Jimmy Choo to her agency when I should've worn her. “It's not available in stores yet,” she says as if she can sense my unease. “It's a spring collection,” she continues as she walks in a circle around me. I can sense the moment she sees the tightness around my hips. Her smile stays in place which is a good sign. “Walk a bit for more, Miss Simone,” she says, and I feel like I'm going to pass out because she's actually speaking to me by name. Maybe the application I submitted really touched her? “I'm going to film it,” she continues as she lifts her tablet, and I lift my chin. I lift my foot and move forward.
    Swing your arms, but not too much, I remind myself as I put one heel down in front of the other. Keep your eyes up and watch out for that rug. I step onto the shaggy fabric and keep going like it's not even there. This is my weakest skill, and I have to make sure that I do my best. My portfolio alone is not going to be enough to get me booked. I keep my pace steady and even and my strides long. When I reach the wall, I pause in front of the orange and red mural and drop one shoulder back, pushing my hips forward and away from Lianna, so she gets the trimmest, slimmest cut of me. I turn over my right shoulder and make my way back, using a different pose when I'm facing her. This time I pop one shoulder forward, and put my left hand on my hip, drawing it back, making it as small as possible.
    “ Thank you, Claire,” Lianna says as she drops her tablet to her side and turns back to the rack of clothes nearest her. She pulls out a swimsuit – my worst nightmare – and hands it to me before sitting down on the round, red stool that makes up a tiny seating area in the center of the room. “There's a fitting room in the back,” she tells me this time and points at the corner of the room opposite us. I take the hanger from her and make my way over to a folding screen. It's black with silver cranes, the same pattern that's on Lianna's knee length dress. I imagine she designed it herself, and I can only guess how successful she's going to be.
    I slip behind the screen, and find that it covers up a nook in the wall with an arch above the doorway and a small bench on the back wall. I take the orange dress off very carefully and hang it on the rack inside the room, making sure that it hangs nice and pretty and that it's wrinkle-free. I drop my panties to the floor and pull the tiny green and yellow bottoms up my legs. There are ties on either side that hang nearly to my knees. On the ends are tiny, golden bells that jingle when I move. The top, on the other hand, is a satiny black and shaped more like a sports bra than a bikini top. I slip it over my head and am relieved when my breasts fit inside without issue. Fortunately for me, there's no mirror in this room, so I don't get the chance to examine my flabby belly or my jiggling arms. I do pinch my cheeks hard before I walk out, just to make sure that they're pink and not pale. There's nothing worse than looking pale in a swimsuit.
    When I emerge from behind the screen, the bell in the back chimes in time with the ones hanging from either of my hips and welcomes in a lanky-pretty girl with blonde curls and a waist that I could wrap my fingers around. I ignore her and focus on my runway walk, making sure I pass directly between Lianna and the new girl, breaking their eye contact and pausing at the wall the same way I did before. When I turn around, I'm glad to see that the agency director turned designer is still watching me.
    “ Thank you, Claire,” she says as I come full circle and pause next to her. She stands up and takes my hand in one of hers. She stands on her tiptoes and uses the fingers of her opposite hand to touch my cheek. “You have a wonderful face,” she tells me, and I try not to pass out as my heart takes off beating a million miles a minute. “Tell me, how are you