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“So tell us about yourself, Bee,” Steph said.

“I’m a second-semester freshman in premed at Columbia,” I said. “I’m from Philadelphia, and I’m an only child.”

“And what do you like to do when you’re not modeling?” Doug asked.

“What I like to do is go salsa dancing and listen to hip-hop and hang out with my friends,” I said. “What I actually do is try to cram makeup labs in for chemistry and physics. I’m trying to make the dean’s list this semester, and quantum field theory is kicking my ass.”

“Speaking of ass,” Frankie said, smiling. “What is your greatest asset?”

I thought about saying my booty, but ever since I got caught lying to Chela, I’d been all about telling the truth. So I said, “My greatest asset is my brain.”

There was a lot of whispering, and everyone looked surprised. It’s over, I thought. Savannah Hughes wins again.

Then Malia Mills spoke. “Bee, I’ve brought one of my swimsuits with me. Would you mind trying it on and giving us a little walk?”

“Not at all,” I said, smiling.

I went into the hall bathroom and tried the swimsuit on. It was a one-piece. Thank God. White, not the greatest for hiding bumps and lumps, but it was backless, which was nice. I took a good look in the mirror, and I liked what I saw.

I was a little nervous about the walk. I’d never done catwalk before. Leslie always said there was no way she could book me for Fashion Week with my school schedule. I stood outside the room for a few seconds, doing the three-part yoga breath that Melody had taught me. Then I opened the door to the room and strutted my stuff.

I tried to remember everything that my modeling pals had taught me. Prageeta had always said take big steps like you’re an Amazon goddess stomping through a village of little people. So I did. Melody always said keep your spine straight but not stiff. She said your spine is actually a beautiful instrument but one that most people never learned to play. So I tried to use my spine when I walked, swaying it just a little from side to side like a palm tree in the breeze. Elsie always said never lose eye contact with the photographer. It’s like when billionaires do business: they’re always looking to see who blinks first. So even though I was feeling my jelly belly jiggle, I never looked away from the casting team and I smiled, not too big, not too small, hopefully, hopefully, just right.

“Thank you very much, Bee,” Doug said.

I went back to the bathroom, changed, and went back in to shake everyone’s hands. Possibly the biggest go-see of my entire career, and it was over in less than twenty minutes.

On the way out, Leslie and I passed Savannah Hughes in the hallway. She had lost even more weight, and I was torn between being jealous and thinking that she was way too skinny to be a plus-size supe. I said hello. But she was doing the cold and frosty thing and pretending that she didn’t see me, which suited me just fine.

26

Just Bee-achy

They
picked me! They picked me! I feel like some sort of Oscar winner whose speech is so long that they start playing the music and cutting her off. Leslie called me that very afternoon.

“Congratulations, Bee,” she said. “You will be the first plus-size model to be on the cover of Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue.”

I started screaming because I couldn’t help it. I was jumping up and down, and honestly, I guess it was everything. Landing the SI cover, being back in the modeling game, knowing that I’d beaten Savannah Hughes’s scrawny butt out of a job. I know the last thing isn’t an especially nice thing to say. But honestly, didn’t she deserve it?

“The
SI
team really loved your backstory,” Leslie said. “In fact, I do believe you’ll be a first in two categories. Their first plus-size model and their first model from the Ivy League.

“The shoot is in two weeks, so I hate to say it, darling, but it’s diet time,” she went on. “It’s swimsuit, and you are representing all the plus-size girls out there. I want no bloating and super-toned.”

“No problem,” I said. Like I’d already said, if I couldn’t have a six-pack, I’d happily take a two-pack.

“I’ve stepped up your sessions with Jenisa to four hours a day,” Leslie said. “You’ll meet with her from five to seven in the morning and from six to eight p.m. every night. I trust you’ll work this out with your professors.”

“No problem,” I said. It was the end of the term, and all we had to do was prep for exams. I say “all we had to do” like it was some easy thing, but I’d learned a lot about multitasking in the past few months. I’d get my work done.

“Okay, very good. The shoot is in Tulum, Mexico, which I hear is just stunning, and you are going to have an excellent time. Congratulations, Bee, you’ve earned it,” Leslie said.

I took a deep breath. “Leslie, I really want to bring a friend with me,” I said.

I could hear her pursing her lips over the phone. “Bee, we’ve talked about this. Modeling is a business. We do not bring along our friends. Didn’t you learn anything from that three-hundred-thousand-dollar disaster that your boyfriend caused?”

“Ex-boyfriend,” I mumbled. “It’s my friend, Chela. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have had the courage to come to your office that day,” I said. “A trip like this would mean the world to her.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. The kind of icy pause my mother gives when I ask her if she would get me something non–poncho related for my birthday, which, by the way, is only two weeks off. In fact, I’d be celebrating it in Mexico on the
SI
shoot. How sweet was that?

“Hello, Leslie?” I asked, wondering if she’d put me on hold and forgotten about me.

“Very well,” she said. “You can bring your friend. We’ll even cover her expenses. But if she comes anywhere near the set or interferes in any way—”

“Got it,” I said. “Loud and clear.”

Now it was my turn to stalk Chela. I walked over to her apartment and rang the doorbell.

“Who is it?” she hollered through the intercom.

“Bee,” I hollered back.

“I’m not home!” she screamed down.

“Come on, Chela, buzz me up,” I said. “I came to eat crow and kiss up.”

The front door buzzed open.

“Well, when you put it that way,” she said as she opened the front door to her apartment. She lived in a quad with three other suitemates, and one of them, the one we called the Human Hole because she had so many piercings, was sitting in the living room, blasting some kind of alternative rock.

“Hola
, Hole,” Chela said. I was kinda shocked that she would call the girl this to her face, but it was clear that her hearing was severely impaired.

“A LITTLE PRIVACY!” Chela screamed.

The Human Hole turned down the music and went into her own room. “I can hear perfectly fine,” she groused. “You don’t have to shout.”

I sat down on the couch, but Chela wasn’t having it.

“I didn’t say you could sit,” she said, swiveling her neck as if she was telling a particularly cruel yo mama joke.

“Look, I’m sorry. I screwed up. Brian had me all confused, and I thought I was in love. Then all this modeling stuff happened and I didn’t know how to act;

I mean, I’ve never been a model before. I didn’t mean to treat you like you were some sort of plebeian. You’re my best friend, and I want to make up.”

Chela sucked her teeth and put her hand on her hip. “Let me think about it.”

I said, “Can you think quick? Because I’ve got this crazy sweet photo shoot in Tulum, Mexico, in two weeks and I want to take you with me, but I have to book your ticket today.”

She looked really serious and started swivel necking all over again. “See, Bee, this is why you and me can’t hang anymore. You can’t just buy my friendship like that . . .”

Then she burst out laughing. “I’m just joking. Tulum? Are you serious? I’m in.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Can I sit down now?”

And while the Human Hole tried to turn the whole building deaf with her music, we sat on the couch and caught up on our lives, book, chapter, and verse.

Two weeks later, Chela and I were in front of my building waiting for the Town Car to pick us up. She was wearing some vintage Bianca Jagger–style jumpsuit that I swear only skinny girls can get away with. I was wearing my favorite Matthew Williamson sundress and a cardigan. I had on cute shoes, but I’d tucked a pair of flip-flops inside my Jimmy Choo tote bag in case it was a long trip and I gave in to the need for comfort. A Town Car pulled up.

The driver came out of the car and said, “Ms. Chesterfield wants to make sure you have your passport with you.”

Of course I did.

“Just double-check,” Chela said as she pulled out hers.

I rummaged through my bag. No passport. I ran back upstairs to get it.

What was that mess I was talking about my greatest asset being my brain?

Inside the terminal, Chela went off to the bookstore to get us a stack of magazines and two copies of the new Lisa Scottoline mystery to keep us occupied on the plane. I had popped into the bathroom when I realized there was a girl hot on my heels; she almost followed me into the stall! I turned around. She was around my age, but her hair was cut in this awkward way that made it look like a duck’s bottom. She was a few sizes bigger than me. I’d guess she was a size eighteen. But I’d also guess that the clothes she was wearing were a size twenty-two.

“Hi, can I help you?” I asked.

“Are you one of those Baby Phat girls?” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“You’re my idol. I mean, all of you are my idols. I work in the concession stand here, and as soon as I save up enough money, I’m going to go to modeling school so I can be a plus-size model too.”

I sighed. Who was I to dash her dreams? But she was five-foot two. The chances of her becoming a plus-size model were not good, not good at all. Not to mention Leslie had told me dozens of horror stories about modeling schools and other places that take your money in order to get you into the business.

“You should never pay someone to get you into modeling,” I said. “But I’m wondering, why do you want to be a model?”

The girl looked down at her shoes. “So people will stop calling me fat,” she said.

I lifted her chin and then told her the sad truth. “People still call me fat. My boyfriend called me fat not long ago. Being a model isn’t going to stop people from being mean to you. In some ways, it just makes you more vulnerable.”

“But you’re famous. I see you everywhere, on TV and in magazines and on billboards. It must feel good to see your face everywhere.”

I couldn’t lie; it did. But I wondered, “Before you wanted to be a model, what did you want to be?”

“I wanted to be a travel agent,” she said. “That’s why I got a job at the airport. I love to be near planes. Even if I don’t go anywhere, it makes me happy.”

“Then you should look into that,” I said. “Your life starts now. Not five pounds from now.”

She had tears in her eyes and said, “Could I give you a hug?”

I said okay and hugged her.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I really, really have to pee,” I said.