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So my sister and I are estranged now, after Jake broke off our engagement to be with his baby mama.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I spat to my mom. “This is so fucked up. What kind of sister does this to you?”
My mom looked at me reprovingly. I guess since she’s known me since birth, she knows how vengeful and spiteful I can be on occasion. But this was an instance where it was deserved. After all, my twin ran off with my man. How messed up is that?
“Jenna,” she said gently. “You’re right, but surely you can see how much Jake and Tina love each other. Maybe you were there first, but the heart wants what it wants, and Jake wants Tina.”
This wasn’t helpful at all.
“Whose side are you on, Mom?” I screeched. “I did nothing wrong! It was all her! Tina makes herself out to be such a goody two-shoes but inside, she’s dirty and corrupt. She’d do anything to get her way.”
My mom only sighed.
“Jenna, maybe you should take a closer look at yourself,” she advised. “Just because you’re pretty doesn’t mean that life is going to be easy.”
“Is that a warning?” I’d sneered. “Shit happens Mom, I know, but this was really beyond the pale.”
“Take another look at yourself,” my mom urged. “Work on yourself first, really look inside and figure out what you want and what will make you happy. And don’t throw stones if you live in a house of glass.”
Whatever. These platitudes and old sayings were too much to bear because they just made people feel worse without actually being helpful.
“Fine Mom, I will,” I said shortly, ending the conversation. But my mind had already turned to other things because right now, I just needed money. I’d been living on Jake’s largesse for the past couple months, reveling in a luxurious lifestyle and clearly that was over. But I couldn’t bear going back to being a penniless grad student either, so I began calling around.
I’d seen an ad in the student paper for a modeling gig a few days back, and I knew I was photogenic. Maybe I’d check that out. It’d beat being a teaching assistant or some waitress job for sure.
“Hi, I’m inquiring about the modeling job I saw in Craigslist,” I dialed the number. “The one where the girls promote a premium craft beer?”
“Oh right,” said the disembodied voice on the other end. “Are you five two and Latina?”
“Not exactly,” I said slowly. “I’m blonde and five nine.”
“Then no can-do,” said the voice. “Premia Modela is geared to the Latino market, so we’re only looking for girls with spice.”
Um, okay, they could have said that in the ad. But if the WASP look wasn’t what you were looking for, then fine, I’d move on. After a couple more calls, I finally got a bite.
“Hi, I’m calling about the modeling ad in the paper,” I said in a clipped voice, my temper short. “The one that pays two hundred per hour,” I said emphatically.
This whole process had been far more annoying than I thought. You’d think that being blonde and hot would open plenty of doors, but that hadn’t been the case with these gigs so far.
“Oh right,” said the silky voice in response. “And may I ask your cup size please?”
Cup size? They asked this stuff straight off the bat? But I had nothing to hide.
“Double Ds,” I said shortly. “Not natural.” I really wasn’t holding back on the nastiness.
“Height and weight?” she positively purred.
“Five nine and one twenty,” I snapped. “Listen, should I come in or what? You’re not going to get anywhere with stats. I could be a wretched hag for all you know.”
The voice wasn’t perturbed by my rude behavior.
“Of course, honey,” the woman said sweetly. “Why don’t you come by tomorrow at 11 a.m.? It’s 243 Divisadero Street. Bring two bikinis,” she added. “One in black and one in red.”
“Wait, I didn’t know I had to provide the clothes,” I shot back, but it was too late. The woman had hung up and I was stuck going to the mall later today. WTF? I thought models sold outfits, not supplied them. But it was too late now, and two hundred dollars per hour was cash that I desperately needed.
2
Jenna
I showed up at Divisadero Street, looking around dumbfounded. There were only warehouses here, and nothing to indicate a professional photography studio. Instead, it was clearly an industrial area. Everything was grey, from the sky to the asphalt. The faceless buildings were grimy and dirty. Oh god. I could feel in the pit of my stomach that this was a mistake.
I found the bell to number 243 and rang the buzzer, the electric squawk making me jump. Chilled, I rubbed my arms, hunching my shoulders against the cold San Francisco wind.
