always thought you were a dime piece.”
“A dime piece?” I asked. Being from Philly, I knew a lot of hip-hop lingo, but Kevin was always one step ahead of me.
“You know, a perfect ten,” he said. “A dime piece.”
My whole face went red. Kevin was just trying to make me feel better. Was it national “be nice to a chubby girl” day? I knew Kevin was bad at math, but I didn’t know just how bad until that moment. I was a ten plus four: a perfect size fourteen, maybe.
“Whatever,” I said. “You know, it’s not real modeling; it’s plus-size modeling.”
Kevin put down his drink and looked really bothered. “Bee, I’ve been in show business for a little bit longer than you, so let me tell you now,” he said. “There’s a lot of people in this industry that’s going to try to pull you down just because they think you’re trying to steal their shine. You’re never going to succeed unless you believe you deserve everything you’ve got.”
“Okay,” I said, opening his textbook and trying to change the subject. “Now, let’s talk about polynomials.”
But he closed the textbook and said, “I’ll get another tutor. Let’s just talk. You’re coming to my album release party on Thursday night, right?”
“Oh yeah, definitely,” I said uncertainly.
“And if you can’t come, then call me,” he said. “This is a VIP pass, so you’ll go straight to the front of the line.”
“Really?” I said, which is what I always say when I can’t quite believe something and which my mother calls the painful elaboration of the obvious.
I looked at the invite. The party was at Bungalow 8. Chela and I tried to get into that club once, and we stood outside for two hours before we gave up. And believe me, that’s saying something. Chela has never met a bouncer she couldn’t charm.
“Bungalow 8. So many people will be there you won’t even notice,” I said, slipping the invite into my fake Louis Vuitton.
“I’d notice,” he said.
“Oh yeah?” I asked coyly.
“I notice everything ,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
Then he left. And I sat there in Starbucks for a long time, staring into my four-dollar beverage. What did Kevin mean when he said he noticed everything ? Maybe he meant it when he said I was a dime piece. Did he really care if I came to his launch party? And if he didn’t care, why did he give me a VIP pass? This may seem like the painful elaboration of the obvious, but I’m just going to go ahead and say it: boys are confusing. After a while, I realized it didn’t matter what Kevin wanted. I wanted Brian, and that was all the confusing boy drama I could handle.
By the time I got home, I’d talked myself out of going to the party. One, I was in love with Brian, and as soon as he learned that I was a model, he was going to figure out what a dime piece I really was. Two, Kevin was a rapper and was probably going to end up dating some kind of video hoochie.
On Wednesday, I got booked for a Thursday shoot. Which meant I’d have to miss Kevin’s party anyway. Which was partly a relief and partly sucked because it was probably my one and only chance to get into Bungalow 8. I gave my VIP pass to Chela under the express condition that she find Kevin and explain to him that I had to work. She promised. That is, she promised after she jumped up and down and screamed, “Get out! VIP passes to Bungalow 8? Get out!” about a dozen times.
My shoot on Thursday was for Lad , a British men’s magazine. The concept for the shoot was that I was supposed to be some sort of sexy farmhand. The location was a real farm in upstate New York. They sent a car service to pick me up, but still it was a haul. It was a two-hour drive up there and a two-hour drive back. The photographer wanted to shoot at the magic hour, right before sunset, which means I wasn’t going to get back until really late.
My call time was two p.m., and when I showed up, there wasn’t a single person I knew. The
“A dime piece?” I asked. Being from Philly, I knew a lot of hip-hop lingo, but Kevin was always one step ahead of me.
“You know, a perfect ten,” he said. “A dime piece.”
My whole face went red. Kevin was just trying to make me feel better. Was it national “be nice to a chubby girl” day? I knew Kevin was bad at math, but I didn’t know just how bad until that moment. I was a ten plus four: a perfect size fourteen, maybe.
“Whatever,” I said. “You know, it’s not real modeling; it’s plus-size modeling.”
Kevin put down his drink and looked really bothered. “Bee, I’ve been in show business for a little bit longer than you, so let me tell you now,” he said. “There’s a lot of people in this industry that’s going to try to pull you down just because they think you’re trying to steal their shine. You’re never going to succeed unless you believe you deserve everything you’ve got.”
“Okay,” I said, opening his textbook and trying to change the subject. “Now, let’s talk about polynomials.”
But he closed the textbook and said, “I’ll get another tutor. Let’s just talk. You’re coming to my album release party on Thursday night, right?”
“Oh yeah, definitely,” I said uncertainly.
“And if you can’t come, then call me,” he said. “This is a VIP pass, so you’ll go straight to the front of the line.”
“Really?” I said, which is what I always say when I can’t quite believe something and which my mother calls the painful elaboration of the obvious.
I looked at the invite. The party was at Bungalow 8. Chela and I tried to get into that club once, and we stood outside for two hours before we gave up. And believe me, that’s saying something. Chela has never met a bouncer she couldn’t charm.
“Bungalow 8. So many people will be there you won’t even notice,” I said, slipping the invite into my fake Louis Vuitton.
“I’d notice,” he said.
“Oh yeah?” I asked coyly.
“I notice everything ,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
Then he left. And I sat there in Starbucks for a long time, staring into my four-dollar beverage. What did Kevin mean when he said he noticed everything ? Maybe he meant it when he said I was a dime piece. Did he really care if I came to his launch party? And if he didn’t care, why did he give me a VIP pass? This may seem like the painful elaboration of the obvious, but I’m just going to go ahead and say it: boys are confusing. After a while, I realized it didn’t matter what Kevin wanted. I wanted Brian, and that was all the confusing boy drama I could handle.
By the time I got home, I’d talked myself out of going to the party. One, I was in love with Brian, and as soon as he learned that I was a model, he was going to figure out what a dime piece I really was. Two, Kevin was a rapper and was probably going to end up dating some kind of video hoochie.
On Wednesday, I got booked for a Thursday shoot. Which meant I’d have to miss Kevin’s party anyway. Which was partly a relief and partly sucked because it was probably my one and only chance to get into Bungalow 8. I gave my VIP pass to Chela under the express condition that she find Kevin and explain to him that I had to work. She promised. That is, she promised after she jumped up and down and screamed, “Get out! VIP passes to Bungalow 8? Get out!” about a dozen times.
My shoot on Thursday was for Lad , a British men’s magazine. The concept for the shoot was that I was supposed to be some sort of sexy farmhand. The location was a real farm in upstate New York. They sent a car service to pick me up, but still it was a haul. It was a two-hour drive up there and a two-hour drive back. The photographer wanted to shoot at the magic hour, right before sunset, which means I wasn’t going to get back until really late.
My call time was two p.m., and when I showed up, there wasn’t a single person I knew. The
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