Writings on the wall, p.12
Writings on the Wall, page 12
part #1 of Writings on the Wall Series
I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something—something intriguing about her.
“Hey, guys. Hey, Steve, glad you’re out of the hospital.” The brunette stands there awkwardly as her hands grip the mic. “I wrote something different for you guys tonight. Thought it’d be cool to share, if that’s all right.” The crowd roars for her like there’s a hundred people here.
“Woo-hoo!” I find myself shouting. What can I say? The energy of the crowd is infectious. I adjust my top, trying to ignore the sudden chill in the air.
“I want love.
No, not the kind of love that has the whole world jealous because it looks picture perfect
But in the back of your mind you’re wondering if it’s worth it
I want the ‘tell me your childhood stories’ love
The ‘tell me why you jump when I come through the door’ love.”
I sit there, mesmerized as every word her deep voice carries travels from the microphone to my ears.
“I wanted to be insightful and compare the love I want to rose gardens and calm seas
But those aren’t the words that are coming to me
I’ma be real with you all
And
Hope you hear me loud and clear
I know the love I’m asking for
Well, I got it all right here.”
As Bailey drops her hands to her sides and soaks up the cheers and snaps she’s getting from the crowd, I’m stuck. Not for the same reason Alejandra left me stuck, but this is admiration. I feel moved by her words; understood, even. And I can’t explain to anyone why even if they paid me, but the feeling grows inside me like ivy on a trellis.
Twenty
I FIND MYSELF in a checkout line with about four different poetry books in my hand. I’ve never been much of a reader, honestly. But I could always start, right?
Bailey sent me some of her other spoken word pieces, and each one captivated me more than the last. There is one, though, that really caught my attention. One line that kept me on my toes and sent chills down my spine every time I rewound that performance.
My struggles are minimal because losing you trumps them all
I’ve never felt a pain like this before
But as for now I’ll just drown it out in alcohol
With Bailey, I’m given a different perspective of LA, a more authentic view. I think I spent the last decade running from emotions, running from the idea of feeling things. What’s so wrong with feeling things? Addressing them—what am I so scared of?
“So what’d ya get?” Bailey asks as I slide into her passenger seat.
“I got this . . . ” My voice trails off as I pull my books out of the bag. “This. This. I thought this one had a cute cover and, well, you recommended this.”
The brunette sits back in her seat as we pull out of the mall parking lot. I analyze her, olive skin peeking out of her tattoo-covered arms.
“You heard me?”
“Huh?”
A chuckle leaves her plump lips, flashing pure-cocaine-colored teeth. “Where to next?”
I’m not used to this, being asked where I want to go. Xavier—never mind. But, yeah, this is new. Maybe new is nice.
But could I ever be with a woman? No.
Shut up, Lissa. She just wants to be your friend, nothing more, nothing less.
“Um, hungry?”
“Oh, Benson. Are you asking me on a date? Wow, I never thought this day would come.”
I playfully roll my eyes. “Maybe.”
There’s a silence. Partially because I’m in disbelief of what I’m entertaining, and I’m sure she is too. What am I doing? I can’t date women. Well, can I? I’ve never tried it. She’s pretty and sweet, and she introduced me to something I never even considered, but—I don’t know.
“Well, where do you wanna go? We’ve got a ton of good places that I’m sure you haven’t been.”
“Do any of them serve green smoothies?”
“Oh, hell no. Don’t tell me you drink those.”
“I don’t! I’m just hoping you didn’t.”
“All right, In-N-Out it is.”
As she drives, I skim through my new books while a low hum coming from the radio fills the silence. Suddenly, a loud gasp escapes Bailey’s mouth as she reaches for the radio and turns the volume knob. A song I don’t recognize at first parades through the entire vehicle.
“Come on! Tell me you know this song!”
A giggle escapes my lips as I shake my head. “I don’t think I do.”
“Do-da-do-da-do!” She begins shaking her head as she drives, curls flopping and flipping all over the damn place.
All I can do is laugh and in an attempt to enjoy the moment I begin dancing too. “Wait! I think I know it . . . ‘And I need you’?” I mumble, trying to catch up with the beat.
I play the air guitar in my seat as she taps on the steering wheel enthusiastically.
As the song ends, we are both out of breath and laughing until there are tears in our eyes. The energy winds down, and the car follows suit by coming to a complete stop.
“So, tell me three things about yourself. Completely random,” Bailey blurts out, the smile still plastered on her face.
“Three?”
“Tres.”
“Uh . . . I don’t really have any fun facts. You go first. Inspire me.”
As the woman pulls into the parking spot, she playfully rolls her eyes. “Okay, okay. Well, I’m currently working on a screenplay, roughly. Brandon and I are twins, if you couldn’t tell before. I think twenty-one is a stupid number, and that lesbians are top-tier human beings.” A giggle escapes her lips before she turns to me.
“Now, how am I going to compete with that?” I joke. “Well . . . as a kid I used to eat goldfish for breakfast, or else I wouldn’t eat. I was on the dance team in elementary school before I had to quit—”
“Why’d you quit?”
“Family issues. Oh, and I’ve never been in love.”
“You’re joking!”
“You have?”
“Una vez.”
Thank God I let Alejandra teach me Spanish all these years. “What happened?”
“Her parents weren’t good people. But, you know, you love and you lose.”
“You’re not afraid of losing?”
“Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t think the universe would take away anyone I’m not meant to lose. Welcoming lessons is the best thing I’ve ever decided to do.”
Twenty-One
SPENDING EVERY DAY with Bailey is nice. Sometimes I just sit on her bed and attempt to write shitty poetry while she works on the screenplay she refuses to tell me anything about. I never rush her, though. Whatever she’s comfortable with is fine with me.
She’s fine with me. Everything about her. The more time I spend with her the more I learn about other people, and somewhere along the line—myself. She pays attention to me, how I bite my nails whenever she asks me about anything past last week. How I lose my mind whenever I see someone litter when the trashcan is literally right there. Bailey learned more about me within our short time together than people who knew me for years ever could.
But our alone time comes to a quick close when there’s finally room for me in California.
“Get up, we have a meeting.” Alejandra’s voice rings from behind me as I lay sprawled out on the couch like an exhausted puppy.
“Why am I just now hearing of this?” I ask, still refusing to move from the leathery seats as she appears in front of me.
“It’s a surprise. Now get up, Lissa!” She tugs at my arm, causing an instant eye roll.
“Well, should I change?” I inquire, clear irritation in my voice. I glance over my ripped jeans and purple blouse.
“No, you look great. Maybe take your hair down?” Jerrica’s voice comes from behind me while I rise from the couch. “I know you’ve been bored not working for Xavier anymore. For whatever reason. But I have a shoot in, like, an hour and my manager will be there. She agreed if I bring you, she’d take a look and we can get some headshots done and all of that right there!”
All of the information crashes into me like a wrecking ball. It’s sweet of them to consider me, but I don’t even know what you need to do to be a model.
With confusion on my face, I say, “I’m, like, five foot nothing. How can I be anyone’s model?”
“I just feel like you need to worry about what you can do, not what you can’t do,” Alejandra chimes in as she heads over to the door. “Now, can you get your purse so we can go?”
I’m nervous, of course. Who wouldn’t be? But I do as I’m told and stomp away to get my purse like a defeated toddler. The idea of modeling never crossed my mind, but honestly nothing ever does. I always thought the career I’d settle into would hit me in the face, and I’d wake up with the drive to do that specific thing. Long story short, nothing like that has ever happened to me. I spent my whole childhood watching my friends say they wanted to be astronauts or princesses and I always said, “I don’t know.”
What you up to?
I smile as I type a quick reply to the woman on the other line. Becoming a model apparently, lol. Rather be writing something w/u
LA traffic kicks our ass. We arrive at a stone building with a ton of different rooms inside. Someone’s taken the time to place potted plants every few steps, but other than that, there isn’t a real consistent theme going on. We pass by one room that’s completely blue with four girls and a photographer packed in there. We’re directed straight to the biggest room in the building, I’m sure. This room is huge, completely white with immense windows across one of the walls. There’s an even larger white backdrop surrounded by enough lights to blind me and one camera stands in the middle.
“Jerrica!” a woman calls out once she catches sight of us entering the room. “And these are your friends?” The older woman gives us all a nod, pushing her overgrown side bangs out of her eye.
“Yes, and this is Arlissa, the one I told you about . . . ” Jerrica’s voice trails off, her big brown eyes peering in my direction.
For some reason I’m nervous, unsure of how she’s going to scrutinize me. Earlier today I didn’t know this woman, or that she’s looking for models. But I also didn’t care for anyone to tell me if I was good enough or not—now I do. The woman takes a step closer to me. Now we’re face to face. My feet are comfortably placed in boots with four-inch heels. Hopefully that helps with the height issue. In a matter of moments I care. I care if she rejects me or not. I care if I’m somehow on the cover of a magazine in the next six months.
“Hi,” I blurt, waving at the woman practically grilling me right now.
“Hello . . . ” Her voice trails off, eyes scanning me from my spiral curls to my black boots.
“I—I don’t have any headshots or anything if you need those. I’m sorry about that.”
She ignores me, turning to Jerrica. “I like her, good job,” she simply says before her attention returns to me.
“I told you she was perfect,” Jerrica adds, finishing her sentence with a high five to Alejandra.
“Well, honey. My name is Holly. I’m Jerrica’s manager and also . . . her aunt.” Giggles from both her and Jerrica fills the air. “I’d be happy to help you with modeling if you’d like.” Holly’s plump, cherry-red lips form a small smile. “We’ve been looking for a girl that, you know, had a more innocent, younger look to her. Somehow, that’s been hard to find recently, so I’d be glad to have you on board with our agency.”
“I . . . ” I start, tripping over my words already. “That would be awesome.”
“Perfect. We have some things to take care of, but I’ll start with your number, email, all that jazz. With that height I can’t promise you’d be a runway girl, but there’s definitely a spot here for you.” Her eyes are encouraging. They make me want to get up and dance. I don’t care about being on the runway. I’m just happy to be doing something again.
For the first time in a long time I’m excited about something. The goosebumps on my skin have been awakened by a career I never knew I wanted until this very moment. No one understands the torture of being surrounded by people who know what they live for and you have no clue. I’m just lucky enough to have friends who are tired of me being sprawled across the couch all day. This might not be my true purpose, and I know for sure I won’t be the next Naomi Campbell, but this is good enough.
Twenty-Two
WHEN YOU’RE NOT the person signing the dotted lines, stardom seems to come so quick. After deciding to sign my life over to that agency, I assumed I’d be complaining about how heavy my thirty-inch extensions were by next week. That’s not how life works. No. But, eventually I did get the call.
My first motherfreaking photo shoot. An odd feeling, really. I’m excited because I can get paid for taking pictures, but the catch is scarier than the reward. I have no idea what I’m walking into. Fun, right? I mean, I know a bit from the emails Holly and I exchanged, but there’s still so many question marks in my brain.
The studio where it’s all happening is the same one Aly shot her cover at. Thankfully, it’s some place familiar, because I have to do this one on my own. For Alejandra’s first anything she had me or someone else for support. Now, it’s my first shoot, and the only person available to go is Bailey. She offered, but I said no. Maybe I need to spend a little less time with her because when I start daydreaming about my future, she isn’t in those feature films. Not yet, at least.
“Arlissa, you’re here!” Holly’s voice rings through the spacious studio as she forcefully wraps her arms around my bony shoulders. “We need to get you changed and into hair and makeup! Chop-chop!” Everything about her reminds me of a cartoon character. Or that chick from The Hunger Games with the gray foundation. From her voluminous hair, the way she sped up when she walked in heels, to the cheeriness in her voice. Everything is just so damn animated.
“Yes, where do I go?” I project my voice, trying to be as energetic as she is.
“This way.”
No one told me my hair is getting spray-painted red for this shoot. In fact, it would have been nice to get a twenty-four-hour notice to avoid the shock of the hissing spray can that’s way too close to my face. The heavy-handed woman pulls at every spiral, making sure the red completely takes over. My curly hair is now straightened for the first time in forever. But also—fire-hydrant red. The stylist tries to talk to me, ask me how old I am and what I’m doing in LA. But it’s hard to reply to these things when you’re getting a wine-red color plastered onto your naturally pink lips.
The makeup look for the day consists of a dark, smoky eye that on a regular basis I would never even attempt to pull off. When the manipulation of my face is over, my hair and makeup team leave to go get snacks or check their phones. I’m left in this insanely uncomfortable wooden chair to stare in the mirror that stands in front of me. Mirrors have a rude way of showing you everything. Not just the clutter or the cobweb on the floor behind you that wouldn’t have been seen if it wasn’t for looking into the enormous rectangle.
Truly, I don’t recognize myself. I pull a bit at the pure red that my dark strands have become. My brown eyelids are now stained with this black and glittery silver color that should only be worn during Halloween. I rise from the chair, getting as close to the mirror as I possibly can. Who the hell is looking back at me?
When it comes to the wardrobe, I slip into a black bodysuit that has this immense pink bow on one of the shoulders that won’t stop smacking me in the face. My small feet find themselves in these Lady Gaga-style platform heels that are almost impossible to walk in. If anyone asked my opinion, I’d say I look ridiculous. Yet, when I come out of that dressing room, everyone looks at me like a perfectly finished product.
I wobble over to where the sleazy-looking cameraman told me to go. What was once a plain white sheet is now a brick background with rusty old windows. In between the windows is a small blue bike that I’m almost certain they bought from Toys R Us. I’d have to squat down low to get on it if I wanted to. So, I’m praying they don’t want me to.
Between the red hair, the edgy eye shadow, and the provocative version of Barbie’s ballet costume, this isn’t me. Added to that, the blush they put on me did nothing for my skin color. But I guess that’s what modeling is about. Transforming into someone else. Making someone else’s vision come true. I’m a puppet.
“I like the red!” Holly exclaims as she comes close to me and fluffs my hair. “We should make this a thing for you, no? Add some extensions too because, girl . . . ” She pauses, eyes scanning my tresses. “Those curls of yours, but red? Give me Loud-era Rihanna. Don’t worry, I’ll make a hair appointment soon. This could be a look for you.”
I shrug, unable to consent to this change before she’s already getting out of the way and making calls. I stand there, analyzing the space around me. The draft from the vents above me sends a chill down my spine as smells of oak and dust fill my nose.
“Ready to go?” The deep voice projects in my direction as the cameraman takes large steps toward the camera on the stand.
I nod.
“Great. I’m going to need you to sit on that bike there.”
This photographer isn’t like Brandon. He’s not tall, muscular, or even young. Instead, he’s at least a hundred pounds overweight, his stomach spilling out of his grass-stained jeans. And he has a hairline that’s so far back there’s no reversing that without a transplant. He uses the back of his ears as cigarette holders; my nostrils recognize the smell of smoke and mold radiating off of his body.
I try my hardest to get onto the bike in these ridiculous heels, holding onto the wall in hopes that this stupid toy won’t embarrass me. My knees let out a loud crack as I squat down and watch as the whole room shoots sympathetic looks in my direction.
“Today, please. You got it, you’re small enough,” the photographer mumbles as he watches me struggle with his ice-cold orbs. Holly is clueless to what’s going on as she stands by the snack table with her phone pressed to her cheek.
