Enticed:A Dangerous Connection (Secrets)

O
THER
N
OVELS BY
M
ELODY
C
ARLSON

S
ECRETS
Series

Damaged

Deceived

Forgotten

Shattered

Trapped

T
RUE
C
OLORS
Series

Bitter Rose

Blade Silver

Bright Purple

Burnt Orange

Dark Blue

Deep Green

Faded Denim

Fool’s Gold

Harsh Pink

Moon White

Pitch Black

Torch Red

… [CHAPTER 1]………………

I
wasn’t always pretty. And a lot of the time I don’t think I’m the least bit good-looking. That’s because I still see myself as a too-tall, geeky misfit with an ugly unibrow and wild black hair. But then my appearance has changed this summer — dramatically. Having my mom’s friend Trista work over my eyebrows did wonders, but I also found the right products for my hair. Consequently I’ve noticed that people look at me differently, and I even get random compliments.

Not from my peers, of course. Other than my best friend, Michelle, it seems like girls from school would rather sneer at me or make fun of my secondhand clothes. But occasionally an adult will make a nice comment.

Like yesterday when an elderly neighbor stopped me in the stairwell as I was going up to our apartment. “Well, look at you, Simi.” Mrs. Norbert adjusted her glasses as she stared me up and down. “Why, you have grown into a beautiful young woman.”

“Thanks!” I smiled brightly as I wrapped my beach towel a bit more snugly over my damp swimsuit. I’d just taken a cool-off dip in the apartment complex’s tiny swimming pool.

“How old are you now?” She switched her shopping bag to the other hand, still studying me.

“I just turned sixteen last month,” I said proudly.

“Is that all?” She pulled a set of keys from her pocket. “I thought you were older.”

“Maybe because I’m tall.”

Still eyeing me, she nodded with a thoughtful expression. “You know … you could probably take up modeling, if you had any interest in that sort of thing. You’ve got the right height for runway modeling.”

I laughed, remembering the models I’ve watched on reality shows. “It sounds fun, but I doubt I’d be any good at it. I’m pretty much a klutz.”

“But you can learn these things. You can learn to be graceful. Did you know I was a model when I was just a little older than you?” She stood straighter now, smoothing out her shoulder-length silver hair. “Of course, that was back in the sixties, but if I do say so myself, I was
something
.” She chuckled. “When I think back to those days … oh my … what fun I had.”

Suddenly I saw this old woman in a whole new light. “Really? You were a professional model?”

She sighed with a faraway look. “Oh yes. I still have my portfolio.”

“What’s in a portfolio?”

“Mostly just photographs,” she explained as she trudged up the next flight of stairs.

Keeping pace with her slow steps, I started to pepper her with questions. And she told me about how models would carry things called “tear sheets” as well as some black-and-white photos. She paused on the third floor, where we both live. “The portfolio would include a résumé as well as head shots and hand shots and even foot shots. Of course, there were also swimsuit shots and fashion shots. They needed to see the photos to decide if a model was right for a particular photo shoot.” Mrs. Norbert walked down the corridor to her apartment and I stayed with her. “We girls would deliver these things to the ad agency or freelance photographer, and if we were lucky, we’d get a callback, which meant we’d probably gotten the job.” She smiled. “It was really quite exciting.”

“Is that how models get work these days?” I was still standing by her door, which is four doors down from the apartment Mom and I share. “And do they get paid very much? And do you really think I could learn to do something like that? And get paid for it too?”

“You’re just full of questions, aren’t you?” She laughed as she turned the key in the lock and opened her door. “Well, maybe you should come by and talk to me about this sometime.” She went inside and set her shopping bag on a table by the door.

“Yes,” I said eagerly, still standing outside her door like a stray dog that had followed her home. “I’d like that. Mom keeps telling me I need to find some other ways to make my own money. And I’ve been doing some babysitting, mostly on the weekends, but modeling sounds a lot more interesting.”

“Oh yes.” She nodded. “It most certainly is. And I suspect it’s much more lucrative than babysitting.”

I glanced down at my damp towel and flip-flops. “I don’t suppose
now
is a good time to talk.”

She looked amused. “No, I don’t think so, Simi. I’m beat after a long day at Marley’s.”

“That’s right. You work at that women’s clothing store, don’t you?” I was careful not to say “that
old
women’s clothing store,” which is what most people my age call Marley’s Dress Shop.

“I
manage
Marley’s.” She kicked off her shoes. “And it’s not easy being on my feet all day, especially at my age.” She pointed at me. “But besides the fact that I’m bushed, you are not dressed appropriately, my dear. Not if we’re going to talk about fashion.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Wednesday is my day off. Maybe you could stop by tomorrow. I do laundry and housekeeping in the morning. But if you came over, say around three, I might be able to tell you a bit about the modeling industry. At least I can tell you about what it used to be like, and I can show you my old portfolio, if I can find it. I suspect that some things don’t change all that much.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Norbert! I would absolutely love to do that. Thank you!”

“I’ll see you at three then.”

It’s for that reason that I’m dressing very carefully today. Which is a challenge since my wardrobe is mostly limited to thrift-store bargains. But I want Mrs. Norbert to take me seriously. I want her to know I’m completely sincere about wanting a career in modeling. Because who knows? She might still have some connections in the modeling industry. Maybe this is going to turn into one of those life-changing moments.

I’ve read plenty of Cinderella stories. I love the movies about girls who go from rags to riches. I’ve always longed to be one of the lucky ones — I dream of getting discovered by Hollywood or winning
American Idol
or the lottery or simply marrying a rich, handsome prince from some foreign country. Why shouldn’t I dream? And why shouldn’t I want to escape my impoverished little ho-hum life?

I’ve even prayed to God, asking him to help me become something special so I can help my mom. As it is, we barely scrape by most of the time. Mom works hard as a receptionist at an escrow company where everyone takes her for granted. She tries to act like we’re fine, like we’re going to make it, but I’m not stupid. I know money is tight and if she lost her job, we’d be homeless. It doesn’t help that my deadbeat dad, who abandoned us when I was five, can’t be depended on for anything — including child support.

The way I see it, we’re not much different from widows and orphans, and according to the Bible, God really cares for struggling people like us. So surely he must want to bless us. For that reason it doesn’t seem wrong to ask God for a career as a supermodel. So as I try on the third outfit, I am praying hard for that to happen. Why not?

To my relief, after my mom got home from work last night, she was surprisingly supportive of my modeling idea when I explained my new plan to her. I was all prepared for some huge resistance. Instead, she was pretty positive.