Paint Me Beautiful

bloated, so inside, I'm freaking out a bit. Tomorrow's casting is important, but if I end up eating biscuits, fried chicken, and mashed potatoes at my mom's behest, then I'm going to gain weight.
    I put the apple in my mouth and chew it slowly.
    “ I've been busy,” I say around the sweet juices that burn like acid. I don't want to be eating this, not when it could affect the whole future of my career. Still, I force myself through it. Short term disadvantages are better than long term disadvantages. At its worst, an apple has, like, a hundred calories. My slice was maybe a tenth, so ten calories. Ten calories. It's all I've eaten today, so I make it okay and try to smile at my mom. “I've been eating on the go.” My mother shakes her head and sets her bowl down, gesturing at a rolling pin with the back of her hand.
    “ Nothing like home cooking, honey. You should try to eat with the family more.” I don't respond and swallow the lump of fruit. It sinks like lead to the bottom of my empty stomach and gives me the chills. I feel like there's an invader inside of me, shaping my body in ways I don't want, in ways that will crush my dream and steal my desires away.
    I grab the rolling pin and the ball of dough that sits nearby and slam it into the counter, taking out my frustration on the pie crust. If I lived alone, I wouldn't have to deal with this judgment. But living alone takes money, and I haven't ever earned a single dollar for myself. Well, aside from lawn mowing and babysitting in my early high school years, I'm still supported entirely by my parents. I still get an allowance. At age eighteen. Pathetic.
    “ Did I miss anything?” Marlena asks, coming down the stairs in a blue plaid dress and a white ruffled apron. She rubs her hands together and takes a deep breath, drowning herself in the smells that make my stomach roil painfully. While I'm wallowing in complete and utter misery, Marlena is drinking this all in, enjoying herself. She feels at home here; I feel like I'm in prison.
    I grab another apple and shove it in my mouth, making sure Marlena sees me do it. Twenty calories. That's only twenty.
    “ We were just discussing Claire's casting,” my mother says.
    “ No, we weren't.” My phone buzzes again, and I pause, elbow deep in flour, to check it. If I miss a call or a text from an agency, I could miss my one chance.
    So if I asked you for movie times, I'd be out of luck? =)
    It's from Emmett. The boy from the Super Smoothie.
    “ Keep your chin up, Claire,” Marlena says as she slathers a biscuit in butter and puts it to her lips with a look of heavenly bliss on her face. “Modeling is a hard industry to break into. Have you ever thought about taking it from a different angle? Maybe going to school for fashion design or photography? Or, I could get you in on the ground floor at my firm. Give you something to do this summer. We're looking for interns now.”
    I feel suffocated by her words, by my mom's look, by my father who says, “Wouldn't that be nice, Claire? For a first job, you can't beat that offer.”
    I text Emmett back and pray for a quick response.
    Family dinner = hell on earth. Please say you'll come pick me up.
    To my surprise, he answers right away.
    Text me your address and I'll be there in five, beautiful.
    This is the first time that Emmett comes to my rescue, but it won't be the last. Emmett Sinclair will save me in more ways than one, and I'll hate him for it. I'll curse his name and even wish for brief seconds in time that he was dead, or at the very least out of my life for good. Later though, later I'll understand that he saved my life and breathed beauty into my dreams.

 

    My dad insists on going outside to meet Emmett –especially when he sees that he drives a red two-seater.
    I sneak out the back door before he gets the chance.
    It creaks a bit when I push it open, and I hear my mom's voice inquiring, “Claire?” I let it slam shut and jog around the side of the house and across the gravel drive. Emmett is climbing out and pauses when he sees me coming. Eighteen years old, graduated from high school, and my dad acts like I'm still in junior high. Suffice it to say that my home life is a bit stifling.
    “ Let's go,” I tell Emmett, beating him around to the passenger door and climbing inside before he gets the chance to be gentlemanly about it. I check my makeup in the rearview mirror just once before he gets in beside me with a smile on his full lips and a