The Home for Wayward Supermodels by Pamela Redmond Satran Page B

Alex’s assistant, finally reached out and took one of the chocolates, then lifted the sharp knife that was lying beside the bagels and sliced into the candy, popping a tiny wedge into her mouth.
    Now it was my turn to stare. “I didn’t know you could do that,” I said finally.
    “What?”
    “Cut a piece of candy like a pie.”
    I noticed the others exchange glances.
    “How long have you been working?” asked the hairdresser, a nice fellow who reminded me of my music teacher and dressed like him too.
    I was so thrilled that someone had finally asked me a question that I wanted to give him a complete answer. “Oh, golly, I’ve been working as long as I can remember,” I said, casting my mind back. “I was probably five when I started digging night crawlers for the bait shop.”
    Everyone took a step back, as if I had hit a fly ball.
    “Amanda has recently arrived from the Midwest,” Alex said.
    “Ohhhhh,” everyone said, as if he had explained that I’d recently been released from a mental hospital. I glared at him.
    “You shouldn’t be eating those chocolates if you’re going to squeeze into the Charmeuse,” said the British editor, who was the stylist—translation: person who got me dressed for the shoot.
    “Now I’m going to have to redo her lipstick,” said the makeup artist.
    “You’ll redo it twenty times anyway,” Alex said, popping one of the chocolates into his own mouth. “Relax.”
    But British, whose name seemed to be Minty, was not to be deterred. “Come along, Amanda,” she said. “Let’s get you dressed.”
    When the actual shoot started, an hour later, I stood teetering on heels so high I couldn’t actually walk, with a fan blowing my hair back and lights making me squint and more than a dozen people standing in a semicircle staring at me. Alex took only a few shots before Minty called, “Stop!”
    I blinked.
    “She has to move,” Minty said to Alex, loudly enough for me and everyone else to hear. “Will you please talk to her?”
    He approached me. I stiffened. I mean, I stiffened more.
    “Amanda,” he said, leaning close. I swayed backward. He brought his lips to my ear. “She’s got a stick up her behind, don’t pay any attention to her,” he mumbled.
    In spite of myself, I smiled.
    “Just do what you did the other day,” he said.
    “But it was only you and me then,” I explained. “Plus, I didn’t do anything.”
    “Wait here,” he said.
    He went over near where his equipment cases were stacked and fumbled around until he found what looked like a few sheets of paper, then returned to where I stood waiting.
    “You probably haven’t seen these,” he said, handing them to me.
    They were the contact sheets from the test shoot we’d done. I knew that was me in the photographs, but it was some far more beautiful, elegant, otherworldly version of me.
    I looked at Alex, my eyes wide.
    “How did you do this?”
    He shrugged, that smile on his lips again. “How did you do it?”
    “I don’t know. I didn’t do anything.”
    “That’s exactly it: Don’t do anything. But don’t stand there waiting for me to take your picture either. Ignore everyone. Even ignore me. Just do what you want to do.”
    I knew what I wanted to do. Instead of going back into the spotlight, I headed to the food table. Minty started to protest but Alex shushed her. I got a chocolate. I came back to the light. Alex moved behind his camera. I stuck my tongue out and licked the chocolate.
    “Great,” Alex laughed, clicking. “That’s beautiful.”
    “But the dress…” said Minty.
    “Fuck the dress,” said Alex. “You’ve got the most beautiful new girl in New York. Nobody gives a shit about the dress.”
    The most beautiful girl in New York? That made me want to laugh out loud, but not just because I thought it was ridiculous. I felt myself relax, and then the longer we worked, the more relaxed I grew, the happier Alex got, and the quieter everybody else became. I still