Halfway Perfect (2 page)

October 2, 7:30 a.m.

After escaping the hungover intern sleeping in my bedroom, I was hoping for a few minutes of calm on the way to this shoot, but of course my phone rings. Wes.
Before
nine
in
the
morning. Can't be
good
.

“Finally! I've left you three messages in the last two hours!”

“My phone was in my room—”

“And you weren't?” he asks, then keeps talking before I can answer and explain that I'd left a girl, along with my phone, in my room. And slept on the couch. “Never mind. I don't want details. I'm at the studio. We need to chat before you head up to hair and makeup.”

“I'll be there in five,” I assure him.

“Good. See you in a few.”

He hangs up with no further explanation. He's at the studio? Wes has my schedule, but that doesn't mean he actually shows up at jobs. I don't know any agents who do that.

Weird
. Now I'm getting a little nervous. I thought this would be an easy morning. There's not too much on the line for me here. Unless I somehow managed to get myself fired? That would suck. Majorly. Getting fired from even the smallest jobs can damage your reputation.

When I get to the studio, I spot Wes in the lobby, talking to some brunette.

“Yo, Wes,” I say so he knows I'm here.

He breaks away from his conversation. My gaze follows the girl he had been talking to. I know her from somewhere. It's possible I've worked with her before on a job. She's pretty—very pretty. And thin, but not runway-model thin. The girl lights up the button and waits for the elevator. Before I can figure it out, I hear the elevator ding, and my attention snaps back to Wes who looks a little distracted. “What's up?”

He closes his eyes for a second as if to refocus. “One of the agency's newest clients—Elana—is also in the shoot today. She's an import from France. Really green, but huge potential. I need you to make nice with her, all right?”

I scratch the back of my head. Wes and his assignments. Last night it was a
GQ
intern and today it's a new French model. “Okay?”

He leans in closer and lowers his voice. “When you get paired together today, a little chemistry certainly won't hurt you at all. Elana's pretty young, but let's keep that on the DL.”

“Got it. No problem.”

Wes gives me his best agent grin. “I knew I could count on you. This could be a great opportunity. A lot of doors could swing open after this shoot.”

I relax, relieved that I haven't done anything wrong, and then my brain catches up, replaying his words. “Wait… Exactly how young are we talking?”

“Fourteen,” Wes says without missing a beat. “But that's between you and me. We're still deciding how to market her, so we're avoiding age labels.”

“Great,” I grumble. Not that I haven't worked with girls that young before—I have, plenty of times. It's not really a big deal. It's just that faking chemistry with a girl who is the same age as my little sister tends to mess with my muse a bit.

Is Wes trying to get us some couples' campaign? Not likely he'll tell me before the decision is made. He's always got a few tricks up his sleeve—some ethical and some not so much. But I trust him.

I call the elevator, and when it arrives, Wes takes a step inside, then hesitates.

“Are you coming?” I ask, not because I expect him to, but because he looked like he might.

He shakes his head and walks three paces backward. “No, I've got a meeting at the office. Just needed to catch you before things got started. I'm sure it'll be a great shoot.”

I shrug and head up to the seventeenth floor, where I'm greeted by Frankie, the producer, and led to the back of the studio, where hair and makeup have set up shop. A familiar high- pitched cackle comes from behind a huge vanity mirror.

“The queen has finally graced us with her presence.” Hugo curtsies down to the floor before turning to face me. “Need some Earl Grey, Your Majesty?”

“No thanks. I only drink the good stuff,” I say with a grin.

I'm trying not to be too obvious, but I scan the area for Elana. I recognize another girl from my agency, Finley. She's also one of the only agency models that I know of who might actually spend more hours at the gym than me. I see her there all the time. Finley waves when she spots me, and I give her a quick wave in return.

A few more witty comments round out the brief hair and makeup session, then I'm off to set. No matter how many jobs I've done, it's always strange to introduce myself to a girl I've never met and then act like high school sweethearts for the camera. I try and quiet my mind, knowing nerves or apprehension of any kind have no place on set, and greet the photographer, Janessa Fields. Wes mentioned the other day that she's a big deal.

The woman barely acknowledges me, but she doesn't seem rude or anything, just on task. I can deal with that.

“Let's get the two lovebirds together,” she says, nudging me on set.

It's immediately clear why Elana was imported from France at fourteen. There's a rawness to her that makes her unique. She stands out. Maybe it's the tan skin and black hair too. I'm so lost in thought that I stumble over some rigging equipment, almost falling flat on my face. I recover with an awkward jog. Unfortunately, no one buys it and there are a lot of laughs at my complete lack of grace.

My near face-plant gets Elana's attention though, and our eyes meet. “I'm Alex.”

She looks like she's trying not to laugh. “I'm Elana. Hopefully you can keep your feet on ground.”

“Right. Me too.”

The accent is heavy, but her English seems good. Not to mention that she's pretty confident for fourteen if she's standing here making jokes rather than shaking with nerves. But she's French. She's probably walked around topless since birth.

Janessa cuts the small talk and starts positioning us, which means Elana is now basically straddling my lap. I shut off the part of my brain that's telling me exactly what I would do to any guy who put his hands on my sister the way I have my hands on Elana.
At
least
she
isn't
topless
.

We finish up the first shots quickly, and Elana and I both move on to our first wardrobe change, and Eduardo and Finley, the other model couple, step into the spotlight. While I wait for Janessa to call us back up again, I'm careful to keep out of Frankie's way. He's stomping around like a crazy person grumbling about an intern taking forever to fetch his coffee. It's never a good idea to attempt small talk or try sucking up to producers before they've had their morning coffee.

Hushed voices converse behind me. It's Hugo and the other wardrobe people.

“They look so perfect together,” Hugo says.

“How long have they been dating?”

“I heard they met in Paris over the summer.”

“That's probably true,” Hugo says. “Alex spent June in Paris. He did that show for—”

I glance over my shoulder, knowing it will stop the gossip. I've been here, like, an hour. How did I suddenly end up dating a costar? Don't these people have anything better to do? Like work? That is what we're here for.

I catch Finley's arm before we switch places again. “What's with all the whispering?”

She pretends to adjust her hair while checking out my fan club. “Who knows? I wouldn't get too worked up about stories traveling through the hair and makeup rumor mill.”

“That's excellent advice.” I raise my voice to a normal volume and proceed to have the typical
how
have
you
been, what jobs are you getting
talk with Finley. “Are you still commuting from Connecticut?”

“Yeah, but as of December I'll be a New York City resident.”

“What happens in December?” I ask, but my gaze is on Janessa, waiting for her to wave me over again.

From the corner of my eye, I see Finley nod toward Elana. “That's when the agency decided the foreign exchange student would be ‘assimilated' enough to ditch her personal assistant, which leaves an open bed in her room for me.”

For the first time today, I notice the older woman watching Elana from the sidelines. With her round body and practical, comfortable clothing choices, she doesn't look like someone in the fashion industry—a babysitter working under the assistant label most likely. And seriously? After less than two months in New York City, a fourteen-year-old girl from a foreign country is expected to take care of herself? Is she going to turn eighteen between now and December? I guess according to Wes that's possible.

I turn back to Finley. “You don't seem too excited about that.”

“I'm not really thrilled,” she admits. “I like being at home with my family.”

I laugh out loud. “Okay, I totally can't relate to that.” My parents are cool and all. And my two brothers have been known to stand up for me a time or two, but they aren't exactly accepting of their younger brother—to quote them—“prancing around in underwear with a bunch of other dudes.” So my time with my family includes my dad's brooding silence, my mom pushing food, and Jared and Bradley's relentless teasing. Hanging out with Katie is all right, not that I've seen my sister lately. I haven't been home in months.

“My dad's making me move out.” Finley rolls her eyes. “He says he wants me to have fun. I don't think he has any clue what he's talking about, but whatever. It makes him happy.”

I grin at her. “You mean this isn't fun?”

She glances down at her dress. “The clothes are fun. But the five hundred pins stuck in this outfit are digging into my back and ruining this game of dress-up.”

I tug at the collar of the very uncomfortable and similarly prickly shirt that I'm wearing. “Good point.”

Janessa calls Elana and me back for more shots in our new outfits. That's when I notice the girl Wes had been talking to in the lobby. She really
does
look familiar. She's standing next to Janessa, watching her work and carting around a professional-grade camera of her own. I catch her staring at me. It's the kind of stare that makes me want to spend a few minutes flirting with her. When we break for a minute so Hugo can fix my makeup, I decide to take advantage of his gossip obsession.

“Hey, do you know who that girl is? The one beside Janessa?” I whisper so she doesn't hear me.

Hugo jabs me in the side with an elbow. “I thought you were taken.”

I'm not even dignifying that with a response. “Seriously, do you know her? She looks familiar.”

He shrugs, coming at me with a makeup brush and powder. “She's some college student writing a paper on Janessa or something. Eve, I think. Frankie introduced us before you got here.”

“Oh. She probably just looks like someone else.”

Okay, so maybe I'm a little intimidated by the idea of flirting with a college girl. Not that I couldn't have gone that route myself. I still can. I'm only eighteen. Some people don't go to college until they're, like, forty.

“These shots are going to be so fabulous,” Hugo says. “I hope it works out with the two of you because you look gorgeous on camera together. Her dark skin and your light features— it's stunning.”

I work hard not to roll my eyes.
Whatever
. Let Hugo tell everyone that I'm hooking up with the new “next big thing.” Although, wouldn't that technically be illegal if she's only fourteen? No wonder Wes and the agency didn't want to share her age yet. If she ends up booking a big campaign with some teenybopper guy who's not old enough to drive, then she can be fourteen. But if she books something with me, they'll want her to be what? Sixteen? Seventeen? Please let it be at least sixteen.

Janessa dismisses me and Elana for the second time. After handing my shirt over to wardrobe, I head straight for the opposite side of the room, to avoid more gossip.

I could only assume when Wes said, “make nice with Elana,” he meant on camera, not off. Or maybe he just meant to make her feel welcome, like, “Check to make sure her Happy Meal includes a toy.” God, even that could be twisted into something vulgar. I let out a frustrated breath and keep my back to the watching eyes. I just need to get through this job and then maybe Wes will be kind enough to fill me in on what the hell is going on.

October 2, 9:00 a.m.

“You! With the gelled hair,” Janessa shouts at one of the male models. “Why do you look constipated?”

Eduardo's face reddens, and he pulls at the back of his shirt. “This shirt's so tight I can barely breathe.”

Janessa throws her free hand up in the air as if to say,
Why
did
you
wait
so
long
to
say
something?
“Can somebody please fix the model's wardrobe before he passes out?”

Several people rush forward, giving Janessa a short break. I laugh under my breath. Everyone seems so afraid of her. I guess I am too, but not in the same way. I've worked with a handful of photographers when I modeled who would have told me to suck it up and quit whining.

And I would have done just that. Thank God Compliant Eve died along with my modeling career.

I've been observing for a little while now, and my legs have finally stopped shaking from my conversation with Wes. He doesn't appear to be returning to the set. Every hour he doesn't show up puts me that much more at ease.

Janessa flips through images on her camera while she waits. “You have some questions for me, I assume? For your paper?”

“Um, sure.” I retrieve my notebook from my purse and flip through some of the questions I'd written last night when I couldn't sleep. “What was it like in Africa? Spending all that time there, it just seems so…I don't know, exotic.”

She laughs and keeps her eyes on the camera in her hands. “Africa? It's lovely. With the worst economic conditions possible, the constant threat of malaria, and the poverty, I can't think of anything more exotic.”

“But that isn't how I felt seeing your photos,” I say in protest. Maybe exotic wasn't the right word.
Epic
. That's what I'd meant to say. “The spread in
National
Geographic
and the piece in
Time
, not to mention your book. I've memorized every image. I could hardly look away long enough to turn the page.”

I bite down on my tongue. Janessa Fields doesn't seem the type to enjoy college girls gushing over her work.

“I can tell you exactly how I pulled that off,” she says, gracefully ignoring my fangirl moment. “You have to find something uplifting as a focal point. You can find that focus in any situation if you look hard enough. And then let the destruction take over the background of the photo.” Janessa says. “It's human nature to want to watch people survive against the odds.”

The producer shuffles toward us, interrupting the philosophical lesson.

“Everything looks great so far,” he says to Janessa. “Let's get Alex and Elana again.”

The couples switch places. Alex takes the floor again. The more I look at him, the more familiar he seems. Besides the younger version of him on
Seventeen
's wall, he's probably on a billboard somewhere posing in boxer briefs.

Elana looks really young. So young that I'm sure it took effort to make her appear old enough to pose with Alex. I watch them for several minutes while Janessa gives directions. Alex does everything she asks perfectly. He's not even a little bit intimidated by her or by the dozens of people watching him. His chemistry with Elana is almost immediate. Whether manufactured for this job or real, it's there, and it'll be there in the photo too.

His arrogance is also painfully familiar. So much that I can't watch them anymore. I lift my camera to my face again and start snapping shots of Janessa as she works. Despite her comment about teen fashion magazines not being her “usual cup of tea,” she's completely absorbed and on task. It's as if she's never taken a bad picture in her life and she doesn't plan to start now.

By the time my focus returns to the actual photo shoot, Janessa has moved on to a different set of models, and Elana is on the floor punching buttons on her sparkly-pink cell phone.

“Are you supposed to be taking pictures in here?”

I glance at the intern beside me. “I'm writing a paper on Janessa Fields. She said I could include some environmental photographs of her workplace.”
Okay, so maybe she didn't say that
,
but
she
didn't tell me I couldn
't either.

“Oh. Gotcha,” the girl says, backing down so quickly that I almost feel guilty for lying. “It's just that Elana—actually, her
assistant
—would have a fit if we allowed photos that aren't part of the shoot. Especially with all of the reporters. No, we wouldn't want that.”

I lower my camera and take in the round Hispanic woman the intern referred to as Elana's assistant. “How old is Elana?”

“Not sure. All I've gotten are mixed answers,” the intern says. “What's your guess?”

I shrug, shaking off a flashback of me, four years ago. “Hard to say.”

My guess is fourteen or fifteen. Sixteen tops.

The girl leans in to whisper to me, as if we're suddenly BFFs. “She's already hooked up with Alex Evans. I heard they might be doing a big campaign together.”

My camera returns to my eye, and I zoom in on Alex, who's clear on the other side of the room. After all his flirting with Elana a few minutes ago, I expected that to continue off camera, but he's moved himself as far from her as possible.

“I wouldn't be surprised if you're right,” I say to the girl. This seems to please her, and she leaves me to return to her work.

I zoom in on Alex. His back is to me as he stares out the window. His hands are stuffed in his borrowed jean pockets. He lets out a breath and his shoulders slump forward a tad and the muscles in his back become less defined. A rush of adrenaline zips through my veins and I start snapping a dozen pictures, walking sideways to capture his profile.

Without any warning, his back becomes perfectly erect again and his head snaps in my direction.

Shit
.

“What are you doing?” he demands, stalking over and placing his palm over my camera lens.

“Nothing.” My heart thuds a little too fast. “Just getting some shots of the skyline. You know…out the window.”

His eyebrows lift, challenging me. “Oh yeah? Well don't let me block your view.”

He steps aside and now I can clearly see that there isn't anything out that particular window except the side of another building. My face heats up despite telling myself
not
to blush. He's gonna think I'm some obsessive girl trying to sneak pictures of shirtless models. As if I haven't seen enough of them for a lifetime.

I have yet to be caught photographing a human subject. Usually I'm in wide-open spaces like Central Park and no one suspects they're in my shot. And those photos are for my professor or my own walls, not
National
Geographic
like Janessa's stuff or even
Seventeen
. If the roles were reversed, I'd be pissed off too.

I flash him my most genuine fake smile. “Sorry. The light captured your profile so well. It's a flattering image, really.”

I have to give him credit because he snorts at my bullshit answer and tries to snatch my camera. I jerk it away from him, pressing it against my side. “All right,
Fabio
. So I caught you in a rare moment when you don't look like a pompous asshole trying to feel up a fourteen-year-old girl. You can sue me if you want.”

His face fills with anger, then changes as he absorbs all my words. “How did you know her age?” he whispers so softly I can barely hear him.

Okay, apparently I've gues
sed right.

Before I get a chance to respond, his expression changes again as if realization is hitting hard and fast.

Uh
oh.

“Holy hell…you're…you're—” he stammers. I hold my breath, knowing what's coming. “That chick who bailed before that big Gucci campaign. You were with Wes Danes, right? I've been going crazy for the last hour trying to figure out how I knew you!”

With
Wes
. Does he understand the double meaning in that?

My heart is pounding. My eyes dart around the room, scanning for listening ears. My hand shakes, nearly spilling my camera onto the floor.

“What?” I ask, trying to brush off the accusation in the off chance that Alex is a complete idiot and buys my denial.

No such luck. In fact, he's got out his phone and is typing faster than should be humanly possible. I close my eyes for a second, visualizing what words he typed into the search engine:
model
who
quit
Gucci.
Or maybe,
sixteen-year-old diva who's decided she's too good for Gucci
or possibly,
ways
to
ruin
your
modeli
ng career.

He looks up from his phone. “Eve Castle!” Triumph fills his voice, like it's fucking Final Jeopardy and he's correctly answered the million-dollar question:
This
female
model
mysteriously
left
the
industry
at
the
brink
of
sup
erstardom.

Ding, ding! Who is Eve Castle?

I should have faked food poisoning the second I arrived at
Seventeen
's headquarters.

“Please keep your voice down,” I bark at Alex. I lift my camera in front of his face. “Eve Nowakowski. Photography student. Columbia University. Not a model.”

He ignores my response. “What happened to you, anyway?” he asks. “Must have been something big for you to take off like that.”

“I'm sure you've already got ideas, right?” I can't hide my frustration. There were hundreds of stories claiming to know why I left, but none of them were true. “Which story did you read? Drug rehab? Teen pregnancy? Psychotic episode? It's not like I'm going to be able to pitch a new version to you.”

He shrugs and lowers my camera so it's waist high. “Whatever. I never believe that tabloid shit anyway.”

And just like that, he walks away, leaving me stunned. A few moments later a voice startles me by saying my name. I turn around to face Janessa. I can't tell how long she's been standing there, but if she heard my conversation with Alex, there's nothing I can do about it now.

She holds out her hand. “Let's see if these photos of yours are worth the shit I'm getting from the producer.”

My heart is still racing as I hand over the camera. I don't even stop myself from biting my nails as she looks over my work.

Her eyebrows lift. “I can see why Professor Larson likes you so much. You've actually given him something worth criticizing, unlike most of the students he's forced to pretend are talented.”

Did
Janessa
Fields
just
call
me
talente
d
?
And wait…my photos are worthy of criticism from my professor—and that is a good thing?

“Thanks,” I mumble, not sure how to handle this maybe compliment. “I'll put my camera away now. I don't want to cause any more trouble.”

“If anyone asks, I just reprimanded you and forced you to delete every one of those photos.” She winks at me before returning to work.

I walk back toward the makeup and hair area. My footsteps seem overly loud. Then I realize most of the crew and models are glaring at me. My face heats up again, but I'm sort of relieved, because I know it's my taking photos that's gotten everyone hot and bothered, not my identity.

There's space to lean against the wall several feet behind Janessa. I set my bag on the floor, holding up my empty hands as if to say,
I'm done, no more pictures
. Then the room is in motion again. Several of the models return to whatever it was they were doing. Janessa and the producer are looking over pictures on the monitor while the intern girl scribbles notes furiously.

I close my eyes for a second, taking in a slow deep breath. Today's emotional roller coaster has already exhausted me and it's only 11:00 a.m.

“So…?”

My eyes fly open. “College Eve, right?” A blond-haired, blue-eyed model who's practically the only person in the room not glaring at me is now in front of me, initiating conversation.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say.

“I'm Finley.” Her hair is curled perfectly, her makeup a mask over flawless skin. She's shorter than me. Probably only five seven or five eight. Not a runway girl like Elana and me. “I'm not in the least bit concerned about having my picture taken without authorization, but I prefer Instagram. Tumblr tends to add ten pounds.”

I laugh. “No tweeting or tumbling, I promise. But I might send them to an old professor who loves to study human subjects in photos for a living.”

“Just so long as you split the profits with me.” She bends down to smooth the hem of her dress, which has flipped upward. “You're here for a school paper, right?

“Yeah, I'm writing about Janessa. She's a former student of one of my professors.”

“That's awesome. I've never heard of Janessa before today, but everyone here has been going on and on about how famous and important she is,” Finley says. “I'm just loving the fact that she hasn't yelled at me, made me take my top off, or told me to suck in my gut. It's nice to get direction that I can actually follow.”

Unfortunately, I know exactly what she means. “Are you in college? Or high school?”

I shift from one foot to the other, regretting the question. Finley watches me and grins. “It's hard to tell with us girls, isn't it? I just graduated in June, but I'm saving up before college. Hopefully only a year. It's been a little depressing though. All my friends are off at school and call me to tell me about their roommates and dorm food and all that. I wish that's what I was doing too. But you, you're living that life.”