Paint Me Beautiful

there will be others. Nothing against Emmett because he seems really nice and he's absolutely gorgeous, but I just don't have time to be serious with men right now. They are not my top priority; modeling is. Fashion is. “Hey, can I take your picture, too?” he asks as he shakes his phone back and forth with one hand.
    “ Why?” I ask as my eyes slide over to the line of girls that snake through the crumb covered tables in the food court, wind around the fountain near the escalators and trail back towards an inspiring window display of a local boutique. I hear they have some good stuff in there, and I've been meaning to go in for quite some time, but I'm just not happy with my body right now, and it's not fun to shop for clothes if you're not happy.
    “ You're so beautiful,” Emmett says, but the words roll off me like water on a duck's feathers, just slide right over and down my sides, giving me the chills but little else. I don't feel beautiful. If I was, the agency reps would've smiled at me or at the very least looked at my portfolio. I glance over my shoulder briefly and see that the bored woman with the lumpy chin is no longer bored. She's standing up and grinning from ear to ear, shaking the hand of a waspish girl with big ears and squinty eyes. She's skinny though, much skinner than me, definitely a size zero. People can talk all they want about the industry changing and about bans on too thin models, but that's just in the big games, just for show. Back here, at the starting line, it's all about skinny. It has been ever since Twiggy emerged as the new pretty, when Marilyn Monroe was out, and rail thin became in. “You know what?” Emmett says as he stands up and grabs his red tray in one hand. “Don't respond to that.” He spins the tray around with his other hand which is actually quite impressive and makes me smile. “That was weird. I don't know why I even said that.” Emmett chuckles and winks at me as he turns away. “See you on Friday,” he calls over his shoulder as he slides his beanie over his head with his other hand.
    “ See you on Friday,” I say.

 

    When I get home, my mom is already in the kitchen with a bubbling fryer and a plate of breaded chicken. My stomach turns at the smell.
    “ Claire?” she asks as I let the door slam shut behind me. I rest my back against it and take a deep breath, plaster a smile across my face and move down the short hall towards the living room. My dad is sitting in his favorite armchair, a big, green, holey piece of work that's been in this house since before I was born. He glances up at me and smiles.
    “ How did it go?” he asks as he pries himself away from his newest murder/mystery novel and focuses his brown eyes on mine. I don't catch his gaze; I can't. My dad has this horrible habit of being able to read people. It's almost like he can sense honesty by looking into a person's eyes. He's caught me in dozens of lies over the years. From big to small, Big Bob sees it all. It's one of his favorite sayings and cheesy as it is, it's true.
    “ They'll call me,” I say as I let my own gaze swing up the stones of the fireplace, travel to the vaulted ceilings and the knotty pine. My parents have a thing for country twang as my mom calls it. Lots of exposed wood, brown leather, and animal heads. The elk that hangs over the mantel stares at me even now, as if to say, I see you, Claire. I shiver. “The line took four hours; the audition took all of five minutes.” I shrug as if I don't care, but in reality, I want to cry. A little bit of rejection is healthy; too much can kill you.
    “ Claire?” my mom repeats, and I turn my head to look at her. She's standing behind the counter island and gazing at me with her head tilted to one side. She's got on a gingham apron and matching oven mitts, and she can't hear me over the roiling grease. “How did it go?”
    I turn away from my dad and pause when he reaches out and grabs me by the wrist. His hand looks big and meaty wrapped around my skinny limb, and I can see that he sees it, too. I pull away.
    “ It'll happen, Kiddo,” he says to me as he drops my hand and a crease appears between his shaggy, red eyebrows. I don't like the way he's looking at me, so I walk away from him quick as I can and smile at my mom.
    “ It was fine,” I say, and that's it. Already, I'm heading for the hall and the stairs that will take me up to my room.
    “ Fine?” she asks as I disappear from sight and put my