Box Girl by Lilibet Snellings Read Free Book Online Page A

was from, what part of LA we had moved to, that sort of thing. Then, after only a few minutes, she clasped her hands and said, “Okay, well, I think you’re great!”
    I was startled. That was it? That was all she needed? No Polaroids, no runway walk, no height, no weight, no measurements? With just a quick look, she was sold. Why had I underestimated myself?
    â€œSo,” she went on, “your primary responsibilities will be . . .”
    Responsibilities? Hmm , I thought. I wonder what those are? Working out twice a day? Applying Crest Whitestrips? Brushing my hair a lot?
    â€œ. . . faxing, filing, answering phones, scanning.”
    My confusion must have been palpable because she paused. “You do know how to scan, right?”
    I tripped over the beginning of at least two sentences. She must have thought I was really scared of scanning. Finally, I stuttered, “No. No, I’m sorry, I actually don’t know how to scan.” My shoulders slumped back to their normal elevation and I cupped my hands together on my lap. “But,” I said, wagging a convincing finger in the air, “I am a quick study!”
    I think part of me was relieved. While the thought of being a model was flattering, I wasn’t sure I had it in me. It seemed like an awful lot of work, staying so skinny. I accepted the job as an assistant at the agency. I would have taken any job at that point; I needed to pay my rent. Even though I was fairly certain I hated LA, I desperately wanted to makethe city work, if for no other reason than to prove it to my parents. My poor mom had flown to Boulder after graduation to help pack up my things, which we then boarded onto a U-Haul and drove across eight states to Connecticut. Before I left Boulder, I sold my car—because, I told them, I wouldn’t need one in Manhattan. Then, three months later, I announced I was actually not moving to New York, but to California, and they’d have to pay to ship all my belongings back across the country. Oh yeah, and could they please buy me a car because I’d need one in LA. I had caused my parents enough anguish already. The least I could do was get a job so they would no longer have to pay my rent. Plus, this woman Francine was pregnant and from New Orleans. Her easy laugh was warm and welcoming and, in the middle of those freakishly unfamiliar surroundings, her southern accent felt like home.
    The fact that working at a talent and modeling agency in Beverly Hills enlisted absolutely none of the skills I acquired while getting a writing degree was not lost on me. In addition to various administrative duties, one of my primary responsibilities was getting the models to go to their castings, which, I would learn, actually took some skill. It was like herding a pack of underfed, hungover, directionally retarded house cats. (The following year, Rachel got a job at a talent agency, and her boss eventually confessed that it wasn’t her education or work experience that got her the position, but the fact that she used to be a camp counselor. “That’s just what you need to talk to actors,” her boss said.)
    From the mouths of models, I have now heard every excuse, explanation, and inane utterance imaginable. Or I should say, unimaginable. You just couldn’t make this stuff up. The excuses ranged from the typical “My car won’t start” or “I overslept” to the outrageous “I can’t make it to the casting because I burnt my eyeballs in the tanning bed.” Were her eyes open inthe tanning bed? It was a real head scratcher. There were some I had to write down, like the following:
    Me: “I’m calling with a casting for you for 2:00 pm tomorrow.
    Model: “I can’t go on any castings tomorrow.”
    Me: “Oh. Why not?”
    Model: “Because it’s a holiday.”
    Me: “Wait, it is?”
    Model: “ Yeah , Valentine’s Day!”
    Me: