that it’ll look normal on TV.
“Wow.”
I look up to see Joy standing behind me.
“What?” I say defensively, pulling off my cape.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head, but doesn’t move. “I’m … surprised.”
“What, you thought I couldn’t clean up nicely?”
“Oh no, not that.” She bends down a bit and inspects her eyelashes in the mirror before glancing back at me. “I know that Bryce can perform miracles. He’s been working with my family for years. I guess I’m just surprised that you let him change you so much. I mean, hell, the only thing you had going for you was that ‘regional redneck’ thing. Now even your own kind won’t root for you.”
I bite down hard on my inner cheek and force myself not to tackle her. Instead, I get up and walk around to the clothing racks, trying to calm my breathing. What the hell did I ever do to this girl, anyway? I have to remind myself that if I’m patient, I’ll expose her for the fake that she is. I just need to see if my suspicions about her and Prescott are right.
I notice a gauzy black dress hanging at one end of the rack, paired with lacy patterned leggings and shiny black cowboy boots. A note pinned to it says, “Photo Shoot One—Nora H.” I run a hand over the dress. I’ve never worn anything so lowcut, so clearly meant to show off “the goods”—which I’m really not a huge fan of showing off. I don’t exactly subscribe to the “if you’ve got it, flaunt it” mantra.
“Is this—this is what I’m wearing?” I ask one of the wardrobe assistants speeding past.
She glances at me and the dress.
“You Nora?”
“Yes.”
“Then, yep, it’s yours. Dressing rooms are over there.” She gestures to a bank of curtained cubicles behind us.
It takes me a few minutes to get the leggings on right, save for the inevitable wedgie. The boots are tighter than the ones I brought from home, but something about them is comforting; they are the only thing I’m wearing that feels remotely familiar.
Outside the dressing room, I feel exposed. What Joy said is getting to me, regardless of how much I want to ignore her. This stuff isn’t me—it’s just a trendy costume to hide my rough edges. But that’s the point, right? No one needs to see dirt under my bitten nails, now tipped with French manicured acrylics, or my imperfect smile, now whitened with an ultraviolet light. For the first time in my life, I’m camera-ready. I just have to fake the confidence I need to pull it off.
I stand up a little taller, turn the corner, and proceed to run directly into something—or someone.
“Shoot, sorry!” I mutter, rubbing my arm where it met something hard—an elbow, I think. The roadblock turns around to look at me. It’s Christian. He’s wearing a tight black T-shirt and dark jeans. I try not to notice how tight they are, too.
“Sorry,” I repeat, looking down. I attempt to slide past him but he follows me into the hallway.
“You look … different,” he says. I tug up the neckline of my dress.
“Joy already beat you to it,” I snap. “I don’t care if I’m a sellout.”
“I wasn’t going to say you’re a sellout.”
“Right. Then what were you going to say?”
He shrugs. “That you look sort of hot.”
I choke on a surprised breath. By the time I stop coughing, Christian’s already walked away, leaving me red faced and speechless for the second time today.
“Contestants!”
Ms. Svincek stands with her hands on her hips, flanked on both sides by two of the other judges. Kenneth Mason is the head chef at 80/20, one of the most successful restaurants in Los Angeles, and Gloria Bouchon is the dean of admissions at the International School of Cuisine in Paris. Standing just behind them is none other than the illustrious Holden Prescott. I scan the crowd to find Joy, hoping to see a chink in her armor. But once I spot her, she’s yawning, looking a little bored.
“The photo shoot for Foodie Magazine will take place in
“Wow.”
I look up to see Joy standing behind me.
“What?” I say defensively, pulling off my cape.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head, but doesn’t move. “I’m … surprised.”
“What, you thought I couldn’t clean up nicely?”
“Oh no, not that.” She bends down a bit and inspects her eyelashes in the mirror before glancing back at me. “I know that Bryce can perform miracles. He’s been working with my family for years. I guess I’m just surprised that you let him change you so much. I mean, hell, the only thing you had going for you was that ‘regional redneck’ thing. Now even your own kind won’t root for you.”
I bite down hard on my inner cheek and force myself not to tackle her. Instead, I get up and walk around to the clothing racks, trying to calm my breathing. What the hell did I ever do to this girl, anyway? I have to remind myself that if I’m patient, I’ll expose her for the fake that she is. I just need to see if my suspicions about her and Prescott are right.
I notice a gauzy black dress hanging at one end of the rack, paired with lacy patterned leggings and shiny black cowboy boots. A note pinned to it says, “Photo Shoot One—Nora H.” I run a hand over the dress. I’ve never worn anything so lowcut, so clearly meant to show off “the goods”—which I’m really not a huge fan of showing off. I don’t exactly subscribe to the “if you’ve got it, flaunt it” mantra.
“Is this—this is what I’m wearing?” I ask one of the wardrobe assistants speeding past.
She glances at me and the dress.
“You Nora?”
“Yes.”
“Then, yep, it’s yours. Dressing rooms are over there.” She gestures to a bank of curtained cubicles behind us.
It takes me a few minutes to get the leggings on right, save for the inevitable wedgie. The boots are tighter than the ones I brought from home, but something about them is comforting; they are the only thing I’m wearing that feels remotely familiar.
Outside the dressing room, I feel exposed. What Joy said is getting to me, regardless of how much I want to ignore her. This stuff isn’t me—it’s just a trendy costume to hide my rough edges. But that’s the point, right? No one needs to see dirt under my bitten nails, now tipped with French manicured acrylics, or my imperfect smile, now whitened with an ultraviolet light. For the first time in my life, I’m camera-ready. I just have to fake the confidence I need to pull it off.
I stand up a little taller, turn the corner, and proceed to run directly into something—or someone.
“Shoot, sorry!” I mutter, rubbing my arm where it met something hard—an elbow, I think. The roadblock turns around to look at me. It’s Christian. He’s wearing a tight black T-shirt and dark jeans. I try not to notice how tight they are, too.
“Sorry,” I repeat, looking down. I attempt to slide past him but he follows me into the hallway.
“You look … different,” he says. I tug up the neckline of my dress.
“Joy already beat you to it,” I snap. “I don’t care if I’m a sellout.”
“I wasn’t going to say you’re a sellout.”
“Right. Then what were you going to say?”
He shrugs. “That you look sort of hot.”
I choke on a surprised breath. By the time I stop coughing, Christian’s already walked away, leaving me red faced and speechless for the second time today.
“Contestants!”
Ms. Svincek stands with her hands on her hips, flanked on both sides by two of the other judges. Kenneth Mason is the head chef at 80/20, one of the most successful restaurants in Los Angeles, and Gloria Bouchon is the dean of admissions at the International School of Cuisine in Paris. Standing just behind them is none other than the illustrious Holden Prescott. I scan the crowd to find Joy, hoping to see a chink in her armor. But once I spot her, she’s yawning, looking a little bored.
“The photo shoot for Foodie Magazine will take place in
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