Paint Me Beautiful

would. “But I think if you haven't learned your lesson by now, you're not going to.” I nod and then realize she can't see me. Yes, I've learned that I can't be lazy, that I can't slack on things. I have to stay vigilant, and I have to fight for what I want because nobody else is going to do it for me. I hope Lianna is pleased with the amount of weight I've lost, that when she sees me, her eyes will light up and she'll imagine the great things for me that I imagine for myself.
    “ Yes, ma'am,” I tell her eagerly.
    “ Good,” she says and then pauses. “Because I've been thinking a lot about you this week, Miss Simone, and it's taken me the past several days to understand why.” I hold my breath. I feel like a goddess has just descended Mount Olympus and materialized in front of me. This sort of behavior that Lianna is displaying is unheard of in the fashion industry. Who remembers an entry level model let alone personally calls them back? I try not to squeal, sliding my legs out of bed and letting my feet hit the hardwood floor with a thump. If Emmett were home, I'd race down this hall and throw my arms around him, tell him I'm sorry. I feel like my dreams are coming true today, and the headaches and the dizziness seems to fade away, hidden behind a cloud of joyous emotion that makes me want to cry. Making the decision to cut was the right thing to do. I feel like that numbness has broken just in time for me to receive this news; it almost makes me want to believe in fate. I don't think about how I got up three times last time and cut some more, made several slices on both arms and both thighs. All I'm thinking about right now is how all my pain is going to come to an end. I'm going to walk the runway in Miss Cheung's orange dress, and people are going to notice me. Finally. “When I realized what it was, I was afraid for you.”
    “ Excuse me?” I ask as politely as I can.
    “ You're just like me: stubborn to a fault, desperately independent.”
    “ That's a good thing, isn't it?” I ask her. I shouldn't be talking back to this woman who has everything I want dangling from her hands, ready to pass the torch of success and greatness down to me, but I can't help myself. I just don't understand where she's coming from. “I mean, look at you.” Lianna laughs, harsh and bitter for a moment before I can practically hear herself wrapping ironclad control around her emotions.
    “ Claire, I would not wish our journeys on anyone because people like you and me, we must test the limits before we find our niche.” I remain silent and after a few seconds, Lianna sighs and I can hear jewelry tinkling like maybe she's shaking her head. “Never mind the ramblings of a tired woman, Claire. Please, just come down and we'll get you fitted.” We'll get you fitted, she says as if she's already accepted, as if she can tell over the phone how hard I've worked.
    I hang up and dig through my closet, drawing out the orange dress and pressing it to my face.
    This is it. My moment has come. I have made it.
    I think quickly about how I might get downtown and decide to call a cab. I have some money in my bank account, money that will be gone faster than I'd like but that which I can't think of a better use for right now. Getting to Lianna's is all that matters. After that, I'll be earning my own money, and I will be truly and utterly independent. I look forward to it.
    When I pull the dress over my head, I don't notice how the fabric hangs loose on my hips; in the same places where it once clung to my body, it now falls straight from my shoulder to my knees. I fail to see that my breasts do not fill the top and that my arms are swimming in the arm holes. I don't see any of that. I look into the mirror for the first time in days and am so hyped up on endorphins and denial that I don't see how ghastly I look, like a walking skeleton, a zombie with flaky flesh and hair that's falling out in clumps. I apply my makeup and make kissy-faces at myself.
    You know how there's often a calm before the storm?
    Well, this is mine.
    I toss some pale pink Louis Vuitton pumps on my feet and sweep my limp hair up into a slick bun that sits right at the crown of my head.
    Here's what happens when I look in the mirror again.
    What I see: a chubby girl who has some more weight to lose, cute shoes, a hot dress that my friends would kill for, a face full of desperation and misplaced hope.
    What's actually there: a sad, sad girl with bones