Shut Up and Model for Me by Iris Blaire

so bad in my life. And I’ve never wanted someone that I couldn’t have.
    When he comes back into the room, I pretend to be asleep even though I can’t be fooling him. But he doesn’t call for me. Instead, he slides into bed, shirtless and smelling of soap, and I wonder what his skin feels like fresh out of the shower.
    What it tastes like.
     
    ^^^^
     
    After a vegan breakfast of carob chip pancakes and maple syrup, Mom won’t let me go. In the doorway, she clings to me tightly, and says, “You’re such a champ, Evan, you know that, right? I’ve been a failure of a mother and haven’t been able to help you at all and yet here you are, managing your money perfectly, getting scholarships, not even in debt.”
    I cringe. Managing my money perfectly? More like managing my lies perfectly. Scholarships are my excuse for staying afloat, when in reality the only aid I’ve received for school is one measly little state grant. East Park Exposed is my savior. And I hope to God Mom never finds out. That would be an awkward dinner conversation.
    “Are you sure you don’t need money?” I ask softly.
    “Evan!” She finally pulls back. “Don’t you ever offer again. I mean it. I’m perfectly fine. The new place suits me. I really like my new neighbors.”
    She’s lying through her teeth. It must run in the family.
    “All right.” I kiss her on the cheek. “Love you.”
     
    As Dallas and I pull away from Mom’s unit, I wonder if her answer would be the same if she knew I had almost ten grand saved up. If not telling her, if letting her live here thinking that I’m barely scraping by, makes me a terrible daughter.

Dallas
     
    Evan says nothing about last night on our way back to the studio. What’s worse is that she keeps talking, yammering on about the most mundane shit ever—biology. The thing is, Evan doesn’t yammer, so I can only assume that this is some kind of coping mechanism to avoid awkward conversation.
    I should have never “practiced” posing with her last night. I got ahead of myself. Even if I told Tricia, she would probably just brush it off, telling me that doing things like that with Evan is just part of the job. That’s why I have to be even more careful. Only I can hold myself accountable.
    Which is becoming harder to do. The more she blabs on about this article she read on the internet about mutating genes in kittens, the more I want to order her to pull the car over, push her against the window, and shut her up with my mouth.
    My fantasies are getting out of control.
    Luckily, I don’t have to listen to any more biology crap when we roll up to the studio. The cul-de-sac is packed with cars. Evan opens the front door, and the place is buzzing with people—models, makeup artists, writers, photographers. Britain runs up to us, her eyes bright with excitement.
    “The numbers are already rolling in for e-issues. Huffington Post mentioned my blog interview in an article today. Can you believe that? The Huffington-fucking-Post.”
    “The Huffington Post covers porn?” I say dumbly.
    “Apparently, renovating the zine to be more universally friendly cross-gender caught their attention. And it did. I mean, it worked.” She’s babbling a million miles a minute, almost as bad as Evan was in the car, but what Britain is saying is much more interesting. “Our agenda worked too. Have you been looking at the website?”
    “No I haven’t been looking at the website,” Evan says with a huff. “We literally just got back from my mom’s.”
    “Well, fuck you. Wait.” Britain raises and eyebrow. “We, as in both of you , just got back from your mom’s?”
    “Long story,” I answer. “You were saying?”
    “Right. Well, our feedback on the issue over all realms of social media is positive for both genders. But almost everyone is wanting more.”
    “More what?” Evan asks.
    “More sexual tension. And more skin.” Britain waggles her eyebrows and Evan rolls her eyes. But her eye rolling