Trashed (20 page)

I snort derisively. “I may not know your agency, but I do know models are supposed be size negative two, okay? And I also know I’ll never be that skinny. So you’re barking up the wrong tree,
sweetie.
”

“Negative two. That’s funny.” He pulls an electronic cigarette from his coat pocket and sucks on it, making the tip glow blue, and then blows out a cloud of odorless smoke. “For real, though. Haven’t you ever heard of plus size modeling?”

“So now I’m plus size?” My voice is dangerously even.

He has the decency to blush slightly. “
I’m
not labeling you anything, hon, that’s just what the industry calls it. And they need talent.” He takes another puff of the e-cig, and then puts it back in his pocket. “You know how many calls we got asking about you after those photos went up? Guess. I want you to guess.”
 

I shake my head. “Four?”

He snorts. “Try two hundred. And that was just the first day. All of them wanted to know if we represented you, and if not, how soon we could get you. Cacique, Torrid, Lane Bryant, Michael Kors, Betsy Johnson…they all want you. Which means
we
want you.”
 

Modeling? Me?

I don’t answer right away. “I don’t know anything about being a model.” I glance at him. “Plus, I’ve watched TV, okay? I’ve heard about the modeling industry, and how brutal it is. I’ve got zero interest in signing some contract that makes me an indentured servant.”
 

Thom looks aghast. “Des.
Des
. We’re not that kind of agency. God, I’ve never been so insulted in my life. Those kinds of contracts come from…god, they’re little better than fucking charnel houses, okay? We represent
talent
. Beauty. Class. And we can train you. That’s what we do.”

“I have tattoos.”
 

He blows a raspberry with his lips. “Um, Photoshop,
duh
. Not to make you look less like you, of course, but that’s the kind of thing we use it for. Cover up tattoos and blemishes.”

I pinch the extra flesh at my stomach between finger and thumb. “Yeah, blemishes.” I look away.

Thom shakes his head and looks sad. “God, you’ve had a rough time of it, haven’t you? You’re beautiful, Des. For real. Have you met me? Obviously I know what I’m talking about, right? My job is to find beautiful people and put them in front of a camera. I wouldn’t be here on this—” he lowers his voice and whispers in my ear, “very,
very
dirty bus
in the middle of Detroit, if you weren’t what we represent.”
   

“Thanks, Thom. That’s nice of you to say. But all that aside, I’ve got a career plan. The semester is about to start. I can’t just leave.”

“A career plan, huh?” He eyes me, long, thick lashes touching his cheeks. “That’s good. Great. I’m sure you’ve worked your ass off to get where you are. But honey, think about this for one second. Really think. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity to get out of Detroit, to do something
different
, something
exciting
. You weren’t even posing in those pictures, you were wearing like,
no
makeup and your hair was great, but obviously done by you. And that dress? Honey, think about how amazing you could look in a couture gown, with professional hair and makeup. You have the kind of face, hair, and body that could sell mad copy, okay? I’m serious.”
 

“Thom—”

He takes my hand. “Des, this is coming from one fabulous bitch to another: You’ve got it going
on
, and you have to capitalize. People want you
now.
School will wait. Your career will wait. This opportunity? It won’t wait. You’re relevant
now
. I’ve got work for you
now
. In a month or two or three, they’ll have moved on, found someone else. You need to let me get you in front of a camera
now
. Not tomorrow or next year, but
now,
while they want your look.”
 

“Wow, Thom. You’re a
really
good salesman, you know that?”

He grins at me. “Sweetie, I didn’t get where I am in my career by sucking.” He pauses and puts an index finger to his lips. “Well, on second thought, that may not be
entirely
true…”

I color scarlet. “Oh my god.”

He laughs. “I’m only kidding…or am I?” He holds up his hands when I open my mouth. “For real, though. This isn’t just a sales pitch, Des. I’m serious.” He hands me his card again. “Google us. Think about it. Talk to your friends. And when you come to a decision, call me. But don’t wait too long, okay?”

“I’ll think about it,” I tell him.

“Come to New York, Des. You won’t regret it.”

The bus squeals to a stop, and Thom gets off. I watch him as he coughs and waves a hand in front of his face to clear the diesel fumes. He gets into a black car that apparently had been following the bus, and then he’s gone.
 

The rest of the way to my stop, I stare at the business card.

All through my shift cleaning classrooms, I think about the card in my purse and what it represents.
 

All the way home, I think about Thom, and wonder if I could do it.

Ruthie is watching the latest episode of
Orange is the New Black
on her laptop when I come in. I pull Thom’s card from my purse and set it on her keyboard.
 

She pauses her show and examines the card. “What’s this?”

“This guy followed me halfway to work today. He claims that a modeling agency wants me to move to New York and be a model.”

Ruth gapes at me. “A model?”

I shrug. “That’s what he said. A plus size clothing model.” I hate even saying that phrase; I am who I am, and fuck labels.

She brings up her browser and types in the name of the agency. I sit down and watch as she scrolls through the results. After a few minutes, she turns to me. “They look legit. I’ve seen some of these models before.”
 

“But…I mean, me? A model? I don’t even know what to think.”

She shrugs. “Does it sound interesting to you? You’ve watched
America’s Next Top Model
with me. You know how they portray the business.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, part of me wonders. Having all those questions shouted at me, that was rough. But actually having my picture taken…that was fine. I mean, not the walk of shame picture, which sucked. But…I don’t know. Part of me wants to at least try it, you know?”

“You’d really move to New York? Put your master’s degree on hold, leave Detroit, leave me?” She closes her laptop and traces the logo on the top cover. “Look, Des. I want you to be happy. You’re my best friend. And if you go, I’ll be happy for you, if that’s what you want. I just…I mean, I’d miss you. But…this is a big step. And it doesn’t seem like…you.”

“I’ve never felt beautiful before, Ruth. I’ve learned to love myself, to accept the way I’m built and to rock what I’ve got the best I can. But that’s not the same as feeling truly
beautiful.
And I felt that way with Adam, and at the dinner. And Thom, the guy I met today, he made me feel the same way. And I mean, what do I have to lose? My loans and scholarships can be put on hold, right? This is the kind of thing that may never come along again. If I finish my master’s and get a job, I’ll probably never leave Michigan. That’ll be it. This is my chance to…do something. To maybe be something other than what I’ve always been. Does that make any sense?”
 

She nods. “Yeah, it does. I get it. I really do.” She smiles at me, but it’s a sad smile. “Better give him a call, then, huh?” She hands me her cell phone.

I dial the number on the card. It rings once, twice, three times, four, and then there’s Thom’s voice on the other end. “This is Thom.”

“Hi, um, this is Des.”
 

There’s a lot of background noise, shouts and laughter and music, and then a door closing and it all is muffled into silence. “Des, hi. You coming to New York with me or what?”

“Yeah. I think I am.”

“You’re making the right choice, Des. Give me your address and I’ll pick you up Wednesday afternoon.”

“This Wednesday?” My voice is thin and shaky. Today is Monday; I’ve been home from my summer job for less than a week.

“I knew you’d say yes, so I called Sidney and she’s already scheduled your first shoot for next week. We’ve got a lot of work to do in the meantime, sweetie. Gotta get you ready for your modeling debut.”

“Is there a contract or anything?”

“Oh, sure there is. But I’ll explain all that to you when we get to Manhattan. Sidney, Rochelle, and I’ll go through the whole thing from start to finish and explain it to you step-by-step, clause-by-clause. You’ve also got about a thousand appointments with beauticians and stylists and all sorts of things, plus Sidney wants to meet you, and then there are headshots, and…just a bunch of fun things to do. For now, get packing. I’ll see you Wednesday.”

And then the line is dead, and my head is spinning.

I’m going to be a model…in New York.

*
 
*
 
*

Gareth is pissed as hell at me, but I don’t even care. We’re supposed to be leaving for London tomorrow, and I’m in Detroit right now. We finished the studio portion of filming, and now we’re doing the location shoots. London, Prague, and then Tokyo. I’m supposed to be with the rest of the cast, supposed to be doing the cold read-throughs. But instead, I’m in the registration office of Wayne State University, trying to hunt down a particular black-haired beauty.
 

I’ve spent the month since the charity dinner trying to act like I’ve moved on from Des, but I can’t fool even myself. I keep thinking about her, dreaming about her. Even Gareth noticed something has been off with me, and he’s typically oblivious to pretty much everything unless it’s film-related.
 

Rose finally dragged me offset and took me out for drinks and told me—in so many words—to quit being a fucking pussy and go find her.
 

So here I am.
 

“Can I help you?” The woman behind the counter is older, with graying brown hair and tired eyes. She doesn’t seem to recognize me.
 

“Hi. I’m trying to find a friend of mine who I think is a student here.”
 

“Name?”

“Des. Des Ross.”

She taps at the keyboard for a few seconds. “She’s not registered. I have her in our system, but it doesn’t look like she’s registered for classes this semester.”

“Do you have an address or phone number you could give me?”

The woman peers at me over the rims of her reading glasses. “I’m sorry, I don’t, and even if I did, I couldn’t give that information out to you.” She squints. “Do I know you?”

Am I above using my fame to find Des? Hell no. “You might,” I say, wanting her to recognize me but not wanting to make a scene.

She taps her finger on the desk, and I can see her putting two and two together. “I do. My grandson dragged me to some shoot-em-up movie. Was that you?”

“It may have been. I’ve done some acting.” I lean close, crossing my arms on the desk and whispering conspiratorially. “Look, ma’am. This is important. Des and I…lost touch, and I’m trying desperately to find her. Is there anything you can do to help me?”

The woman clicks her mouse, types something into the keyboard, glancing at me every once in a while. After a moment, I hear a printer whirring, and she stretches to grab the sheet of paper that spits out. She grabs a pen from a cup, and slides the pen and paper toward me; I take it, seeing that she’s printed out a promo shot of me from
Fulcrum
.

“What’s your grandson’s name?”

“Dan.”

I scrawl in the white border above the picture:
Dan, you have an awesome grandma. Thanks for watching!
And then I sign my name, large and messy, above my head. I hand her the picture, and she reads the note, and then gives me a look that is equal parts sour, amused, and flattered.
 

“Well, Mr. Trenton. Do you know Ruth Nicholson?”
 

“Yeah, I met her once.”

“Well, if you wait outside room A-one-thirteen, a class will be letting out in…fifteen minutes. Ruth might be able to help you.”

I thank her and leave the registration office. It takes me most of the next fifteen minutes just to find the room, and then I wait at the end of the hallway, my Chargers ball cap pulled low over my face, a pair of wide aviators over my eyes. It’s the look that I call “celebrity incognito”, meaning that it doesn’t actually ever fool anyone if they bother to look right at you, but it makes you feel like you’re at least trying to go unnoticed.
 

I only wait a few minutes, and then a door opens and students file out, most of them chatting in pairs or singly and staring at their cell phones. A few glance at me, and only one kid seems to recognize me. I give him a slight shake of my head, and he grins at me and keeps walking. And then I see Ruth. She’s walking beside a young, good-looking Asian guy wearing a Tigers cap, and neither of them notice me.
 

They’re about to pass by when I snag Ruth’s sleeve. “Ruth. Got a second?”

She halts and stares at me, and her eyes go wide, but she recovers quickly and turns to her friend. “Hoang, I’ll catch up to you, okay?” She inclines her head toward the exit leading outside. I follow her, and she pulls me around the corner into an alcove, lights up a cigarette, and stares at me. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Adam Trenton.”
 

“Hi, Ruth. How are you?”
 

“Peachy. What do you want?” She’s got her arms crossed over her chest, one hand lifting her cigarette every now and then. Her posture is closed and she’s either angry or suspicious or both.

“Des.”

She frowns at me and blows smoke past my face. “You let her go a month ago.”

“Not by choice. She…I don’t know how to even put it. She shut me out. Just closed down.” I shove a hand in my pocket and scan the area around us, making sure there’s no one taking pictures or noticing me. “I really like her. I wanted to…see where things could go, I guess, and she just wasn’t having it. I let her go because it’s what she seemed to want. But I can’t get her out of my head. I need to find her. Where is she?”