Box Girl by Lilibet Snellings Read Free Book Online

didn’t feel like a model, and certainly not a “real” one.
    Beyond the initial flattery, the model booker was all business. She snapped a few Polaroids: “Look right, look left, hold your hair back with your hand. No not like that, like this. Okay now smile—okay don’t smile that much.” Before I left, I got her card so I could send her a thank you note while casually mentioning I was looking for a job at a magazine.

    Months later, after moving to California, I thumbed through the stack of business cards I had acquired during my interviews in Manhattan. While I knew most of the magazines didn’t have editorial offices in LA, I thought someone might know someone in publishing out here. No one did.
    When I tried the booker at Lucky , she replied: “So, I don’t have any close contacts in magazines out there, but I do know several modeling agencies.” I read the email again. Modeling agencies? Was I seeing this right? Even though this woman never used my photo in Lucky , she thought I had what it takes to be a model in LA? To have an agent? I checked my reflection in the monitor of Rachel’s parents’ PC. My skin was tanned and my hair was sun streaked. Most of that college weight was gone. I sucked in my cheeks and puckered my lips. I swished my hair across my shoulders and, with the back of my hand, pushed a half-eaten bowl of ice cream to the edge of the desk. I rolled my shoulders southward and watched asmy slouching spine began to unfurl itself, making me three inches taller. I think I might have winked at myself. Flashing a toothpaste-commercial smile at my own reflection, I placed my hands delicately on the keyboard and began composing my reply.
    â€œThanks so much for getting back to me!” I typed. “I am very interested! Please pass on the necessary details!” I hit send at the top of my Hotmail inbox and watched the email disappear into the abyss. The hairs on my arms stood straighter, too. I crossed my arms and rubbed my hands against my triceps, giving myself a hug. Maybe this wasn’t part of the plan. But screw the plan. I was going to be a model . . . in LA .
    The booker at Lucky put me in touch with her agent friend, who called me in for a meeting. On the afternoon of the interview, I made a right onto the agency’s street—in Beverly Hills, of course. The streets really were lined with palm trees. I craned my head out my window and looked up. They seemed to stretch skyward forever. It looked just like Troop Beverly Hills . But where was my Shelly Long mom figure to comfort me and buy me pedicures? The unfamiliarity juxtaposed with the creepy film-set reminiscence made me queasy. What was I doing? A model? In LA? Was this really for me? What would my parents think, having just spent upward of $100K on my college education? I sat in the parking garage and gnawed on my nails. I was early because I had given myself an hour to get there. I drummed my thumbs against the wheel, pulled down the visor, and checked my reflection in the mirror. I licked lipstick from my teeth, and with that, I went into the building.
    I told the receptionist I was there for an interview, feeling silly calling it that. Is that what they call it in the modeling world? I wasn’t sure. The president of the agency, a friendly former model named Francine, asked me to take a seat in a conference room. Her first words were, “I love your outfit.You look so cute.” She liked my outfit; we were off to a great start. “So tell me a little about yourself,” she asked.
    â€œWell, I graduated in May and recently moved out here with some girlfriends.” I decided to forgo the business about the writing and the journalism degree. What good would that do anyway? “And I’m really ready to take on something new and exciting.” I tried to sit up as straight and skinny as possible on the saggy couch. She asked me a few more questions: where I