Chapter 2:
Thud.
I dropped my Balenciaga Papier Cannage Imprime Tote onto the hard, faux-stone floor of my kitchen. I had gone a little crazy after I had received the paycheck from my first photo shoot and had picked it up on the Main Floor at Barney’s. It had a soft spot in my heart. Feeling a little guilty, I picked it back up, dusted it off, and placed in gently on one of the stools lined neatly against the granite island.
“Mom! I’m home!” My voice rang out, echoing off the walls.
The muffled sound of pages being turned came from the living room and I padded down the hallway to find my mother seated cross-legged on the couch, various papers scattered around her. She was scrutinizing a glossy-covered pamphlet, her brow furrowed behind her Ralph Lauren black-rimmed glasses.
I tapped my knuckles against the door frame. “Mom?” She glanced up, looking surprised to see me. In my own house. Sigh. She must be really into, er, whatever she’s doing.
“Oh, hello sweetheart. How was the shoot?”
She picked up a few of the papers, clearing a spot on the couch next to her and patting the seat with a perfectly manicured hand. I sat down, pulling me knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around my legs.
“It was fine. I think Sergei stayed too long in the tanning bed. He was working the fake n’ bake look today.”
My mother chuckled, shaking her head as she stared down at another paper. I craned my neck, reading over her shoulder. Or, trying to. Before I could read a full sentence, she had flicked it into a pile and whipped out a new paper.
“Uh, Mom? What, uh, are you doing?”
She set down her paper, clasping her hands together in excitement. She turned to look at me, her green eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Oh sweetie, I have some exciting news! I just got a call today from Elite Model Management. They want you for their summer fashion tour in Paris!”
Holy schnitzel.
Apparently, I must have been blankly staring at my mother because she shook my shoulders, a worried look crossing her face.
"Shane? Sweetheart? Did you hear me?”
“E-Elite Management w-wants me?” I choked out, still in shock.
A relieved smile broke out on my mother’s face, probably happy I wasn’t having a mental breakdown or going into a coma.
“Yes. They saw the photos from the Armani shoot and they’d love to have you for their tour. There’s a photo shoot in Avignon, a show in Paris, I’m pretty sure there’s a big dinner somewhere in Paris, let me just…” She reached down for one of her papers but before she could, I wrapped my arms around her, shrieking and laughing like an idiot.
I was going to France to model for Elite Model Management, the most prestigious modeling agency, like, ever! This was going to make my modeling career. I could become the next Gisele Bundchen, or Tyra Banks, or-
“Oh and get this,” my mother said, holding me at arms length, “you’ll be working with one of the big managers of Elite, Charlotte Samuels. She personally reviewed your photos and recommended you for the tour!”
Was this really happening? How could this get any better?
“And even better, she has a son who’s your age and goes to the same school as you so you’ll have a little friend while you’re over there!”
Elite Model Management, France, and now a potentially cute boy! Was my life really this amazing? “Really? Do I know him? What’s his name?”
“Riley Samuels.”
Shit.
I guess my life really wasn’t that amazing.
