Paint Me Beautiful

hand on the smooth wood of the banister. “Well, what did they say?” My mom always wants to talk about my auditions, soothe me with words and hugs and cookies, tell me that it's okay and that I am beautiful. She's been doing it since the moment I missed the lead in the school play to the moment I didn't make the cheerleading squad; she continues to do it now, but it never helps. It just makes me irritated with her. Why can't she see that I just need some time alone to process?
    “ They'll call me,” I say, and then I'm moving up the stairs and into my bedroom. I close and lock the door behind me and toss my portfolio onto my desk, running my hands down my face as I try to catch my breath. It's one thing to be judged by the folks at the agencies, the gatekeepers who decide if you're good enough; it's another to be judged by your parents, even if they mean well. I sigh and plop down into my computer chair. I may have escaped them for the moment, but I won't escape Marlena. She knows how to pick the lock on my bedroom door. Once she gets here, I can kiss my privacy goodbye.
    I get online, and I check my email, just to see if I've got any responses to the inquiries I've been sending out. When there's nothing, I swallow my disappointment down to a churning stomach and move on, desperately searching the web for more casting calls. If I have a couple lined up, then I won't feel so bad about the ones I fail. Like, there's always a chance, an opportunity waiting on the horizon. I have to maintain that level of thinking, or I won't make it.
    I scour the web for awhile. After all, there's no shortage of opportunities listed. The Internet is a vast and exciting place, one that leaves no stone unturned. I have access to every country, every agency, every campaign in the world from this spot on my pink chair. It's just a matter of finding the right place to be at the right time, sending out the right set of photos and the best application to the one agency that might actually look at it. In a way, I'm like a detective, searching for clues, putting together the pieces of a puzzle that's much, much bigger than I am. It could be a matter of hours before I find my place; it could be years. But I don't care. I have to do this. This is the one and only thing I've ever wanted.
    After I have a full two weeks of casting calls plugged into my phone, I switch my focus and shut the lid on my laptop, standing in front of the mirror and examining my skin, my eyebrows, my nose, my hair. Right now, it's icy blonde, almost white, and it's been freshly bleached. I have to watch it carefully though or the red might sneak back in, and roots are not appealing on anyone let alone a wannabe model. I poke and prod at my hairline, pick apart the hairs and stare at my scalp. I don't see anything, so I take a deep breath and stand up straight, convinced that I've done all the maintenance I can do for the moment.
    My stomach growls and cramps, reminding me that soon enough, I'm going to be poisoning myself with grease and butter and lard. That's right – lard. My mom thinks that just because she grew up in the South that she has to put animal fat in everything. I think I'm going to become a vegetarian. Maybe that would get her off my back? I roll my eyes as I think about the look on my mother's face were I to swear off meat forever. At best, she'd probably start cooking green beans in bacon fat and calling it vegetarian, and at worst, she'd probably try to have me committed. I sigh and pull out my phone, scanning quickly through messages from friends I haven't talked to in too long and pausing at a text from an unknown number.
    Just wanted to see if this number really belonged to Claire Simone or if this is a movie theater or something. That happened to me once before. Sincerely, Emmett Sinclair.
    I smile, add Emmett to my list of contacts and send him a short message.
    You got me, is all I say, sliding my phone into my back pocket and pausing to listen to the sounds from downstairs. Marlena is definitely here, and it won't be long before she comes looking for me. I catch a side view of myself in the long mirror near my dresser. I usually cover it with a sheet, so I don't have to stare at myself all day, but I needed to make sure I looked presentable this morning. The sight is disturbing, and I know without a doubt why I didn't get chosen at the casting today. I look like a friggin' whale. I grab a jacket from my closet and toss it over my reflection.