Enticed:A Dangerous Connection (Secrets) (2 page)

“That’s really generous of Mrs. Norbert,” she said as we shared take-out Chinese food at our kitchen table. “Although I never would’ve guessed the old girl was a model. Go figure, huh?”

“Well, it was a long time ago. Like back in the sixties. Anyway, she told me to come by at three tomorrow. I’m going to dress really nice, kind of like it’s an interview, you know? And maybe she’ll believe in me enough to want to help me find some real modeling jobs.”

Mom reached for the carton of spareribs. “At the very least, it should be good practice for you. I mean, for you to treat this meeting like an interview. But don’t get your hopes too high, Simi. Even though it’s kind of Mrs. Norbert to help you, her experience in modeling was a long, long time ago.” She laughed.

“I know Mrs. Norbert’s a little old.” I felt slightly defensive of our elderly neighbor now. “But she seems to understand fashion — and she seems to believe in me.”

Mom gave me a tired smile. “Well, I must agree with Mrs. Norbert that you’re a pretty girl. Pretty enough to be a model. Of course, I’m biased. But you’re certainly tall enough at five foot ten. And I know they like tall girls to show off clothes. Especially on the runway.”

I frowned down at the egg roll in my hand. “But I’m not exactly skinny. I wonder if I’ll have to lose weight. Maybe I should go on a diet right now.” I set the egg roll back down.

“Lose weight?” Mom frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous, Simi. You do not need to diet. Anyone who tells you that is perfectly crazy.”

“But models are always stick thin. I have these curves.”

“You have very nice curves.” She firmly shook her head. “Don’t even go there, young lady.”

I shrugged and picked up the piece of egg roll again, then popped it in my mouth. Hopefully Mom was right. Although I don’t think she’s ever watched any of the reality modeling shows. Most of those girls seem very, very thin. And if they’re not, they get kicked off.

“It would be nice if you could start earning money for college,” Mom said wistfully. “Although I’m sure it’s not easy to break into modeling. And it’s probably really hard work, too.”

“I’m willing to work hard. And I don’t think modeling could be any harder than babysitting the Burk twins.”

Mom laughed. “Well, don’t give up your babysitting just yet, sweetie.”

I cringe to think of the bratty two-and-a-half-year-olds I watch during the weekends. Leo and Lacy are more than just a handful; they are spoiled rotten. But their mom, Trista, is my mom’s best friend, and I’ve committed to watching the twins on the weekends for the entire summer since their day care is only open on weekdays. But I learned early on that babysitting these two is no easy feat. Modeling would have to be easier.

As I try on my fifth outfit, I’m imagining informing Trista that she’ll have to find someone else to watch her two adorable rug rats because I have found work modeling. What a day that will be! I finally decide on a pair of dark-gray skinny jeans, a silky sleeveless black top I sneaked from Mom’s closet, and a pair of red high-heeled shoes I got for $5.99 at Payless last winter but never wore. The shoes make me more than six feet tall, which would normally make me feel ridiculously gigantic. But today I am imagining myself strutting down the runway with other tall models. I can see myself in designer originals as I move gracefully in the spotlight with all eyes on me. I can hear their applause and feel their admiration. It is fabulous!

As I work on my long dark hair and apply some makeup, trying to make everything look as perfect as possible, I imagine my smiling face on the cover of a slick glossy fashion magazine. Naturally, the photographer would airbrush the zit that’s threatening to erupt on my chin right now. But for now I conceal it with my CoverGirl makeup and hope Mrs. Norbert won’t notice the raised bump.

I’m just finishing up when my phone chimes and, of course, it’s Michelle. “Are you all ready for your big appointment?” she asks. I can hear the slightly sarcastic edge to her voice, but that’s Michelle. Even though she’s fiercely loyal to me, she is skeptical about almost everything.

“I think so.” I describe my outfit, and she insists I should send a photo to her.

“Just in case you missed something.”

So I hold my phone out and, striking a pose, I take a shot and send it.

“I think that top is all wrong,” she tells me after she’s had a chance to check it out. “Makes you look too old.”

“I don’t think that matters. Mrs. Norbert thought I was older than sixteen and it seemed like that was a good thing.”

“I guess that’s up to you. If you want to look like that …”

I scrutinize my image in the mirror. “Well, I like it. I’m not changing a thing.”

“Do you honestly think Mrs. Norbert can help you find a
real
modeling job?” Her voice is dripping in doubt now. I can’t tell if she’s really this cynical or if she’s simply jealous.

“She was a professional model. She might know people.”

“But she’s so old, Simi. I’ll bet everyone she knows is retired or dead by now.”

Once again, I defend Mrs. Norbert, but even as I do, I realize Michelle is probably right. “So are you saying you don’t think I can do this? Are you trying to shoot down my dream even before I have a chance to get started?”

“No … I’m just being realistic. And because I’m your friend, I don’t want to see you disappointed or hurt.”

“But what if this works? What if I really do make the right connections and get hired and make money and eventually get famous? Would you even be happy for me?”

There’s a long pause now, and I’m reminded that Michelle isn’t exactly what I’d call model material. For starters, she’s only five foot two. Besides that, she’s addicted to fast food, which has taken its toll on her weight. But she does have a pretty face. And her long curly auburn hair is very nice. If Michelle gave up fast food and shed some pounds, she might even have a future in fashion. Not that I plan to mention this to her. I value her as my best friend too much to go there.

“Yeah, sure, I’d be happy for you,” she finally says. “But if you become famous, you’d probably drop me as your friend.”

“I would not. You know I’m not like that.”

“Okay then, good luck with your big appointment with old Mrs. Norbert.” She chuckles like she’s still not taking me seriously. “Let me know how it goes. Okay?”

“Yeah.” I look at the clock in the kitchen. “It’s almost three. I should probably head that way. I don’t want to be late.”

After I hang up, I wonder at her question. Does she really think I’d dump her as a friend just because I got rich and famous? I think of the times we’ve watched each other’s backs while the mean girls used us for target practice. Not just with words either — although the painful sting of insults lasts longer than bruises and scratches.

But Michelle has always been there for me, and there is no way I would abandon her just because I landed a cool modeling career. If anything, it would help us both to hold our heads higher next fall when school starts. Maybe we wouldn’t get picked on so much. Just one more reason for God to make my dreams come true!

I feel nervous and excited as I walk the four doors down. And the clicking of my high heels echoes in the hallway, sounding almost like someone else’s footsteps. Or maybe I am someone else. Or becoming someone else. I can only hope.

I’m nearly to Mrs. Norbert’s door when my heel catches on a crack in the floor and I nearly fall flat on my face. Catching my balance against the rough stucco wall, I manage to get back on my feet. I take in a deep breath, steadying myself, and smooth out my hair.

I am still just me. Simi Fremont. A desperate sixteen-year-old hoping for her big lucky break.

… [CHAPTER 2]………………

“C
ome in, come in,” Mrs. Norbert gushes as she opens the door. She has on a pair of white capri pants and a pale pink shirt. “Why, don’t you look pretty. And very sophisticated, too.” She tilts her head to one side, studying me carefully. “I really do think you might have what it takes, Simi.”

I’m sure I’m beaming at her as I enter her small living room, which is identical to our living room except it’s furnished in some interesting retro pieces. “Wow, what a totally cool room. Are these things really old or just reproductions?”

She laughs. “I suppose they are really old. My late husband and I invested in good furniture when we were in our twenties, and I’ve just never been able to let go of them.”

I run my hand over a long, vinyl-covered white couch. “It reminds me of something I’d see in an old Audrey Hepburn movie.”

“You watch Audrey Hepburn movies?”

“Yeah. Mom and I both like her a lot.
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
is my favorite old film.”

“Audrey Hepburn was the queen of style.” Mrs. Norbert smiles. “So not only do you look like a model, you think like one too. I like that.” She waves to the couch. “Go ahead and sit down. Let’s talk.”

I make myself comfortable on the sleek couch, attempting to cross one leg over the other, but the couch is so low and I lift my knee so high that I almost knock myself in the chin as I do this.

Mrs. Norbert laughs as she sits in an interestingly shaped orange chair. “You do it like this.” She takes one leg and tucks it behind the other in a surprisingly graceful movement that makes her body resemble a
Z
, which seems pretty good for an old lady. “Go ahead and try it,” she says.

So, trying to imitate her, I make several attempts until I finally manage to get one leg tucked neatly behind the other, but then I’m about to slide off the edge of the couch.

“You need to balance yourself. Hold your head high, like this. Don’t slump your shoulders.”

It takes me several more tries, but I eventually figure it out.

“Very good.” She nods. “You’ll have to practice that at home. And now I want you to gracefully stand up and go over to the door. Then pretend like you’re just entering the room and sit down all over again.”

Feeling silly and wondering what this has to do with modeling, I follow her direction. But I’m only halfway to the couch when she stops me. “No, no, Simi. Not like that. You look just like a goose.”

She slowly stands and comes over to join me by the door. “Walk like this.” Now she sort of saunters across the room; somehow she’s moving her shoulders and her hips in a way that looks kind of smooth and yet sort of weird at the same time. And then she sits on the couch, folding herself into that
Z
position, and smiles at me. “See?”

“I … uh … I think so.” So again I attempt to mimic her, but after a few steps, she sends me back to the door to try again. After about twenty tries, she is marginally satisfied with my performance and allows me to remain on the couch.

“I realize that most young women do not understand how to present themselves in a composed and professional manner anymore. But I strongly feel that a girl, one who wants to be noticed in the modeling industry, would be wise to carry herself with dignity and grace. That alone will get you attention.”

I want to point out that I haven’t noticed any of the models on reality TV walking, acting, or sitting like this, but I don’t want to insult her. Especially since she is trying so hard to help me.

She comes over to sit next to me, reaching for a large black folder thing sitting on the glass-topped coffee table. “
This
is my portfolio,” she says with almost reverence, as if it’s the family Bible that’s been passed down from her ancestors. “And although you can see that it’s dated, you will get the general idea of what makes for a good portfolio.” She proceeds to flip through glossy black-and-white photos of a very young and gorgeous blonde in a variety of shots.

“Wow, you were really beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She holds her head high.

“How long did you model?”

“Only a few years. About three and a half to be exact. That’s when I met Mr. Norbert. And after we got married, he insisted I give up modeling. And then, of course, we had Belinda a year later. And as they say, the rest is history.”

“How did you know you wanted to be a model?”

She sighs, smoothing her silver hair away from her face. “It was my mother’s idea. She enrolled me in a class where I was taught how to walk and sit and practice good posture — just like I’m showing you. Then my mother’s photographer friend offered to take pictures of me. Before I knew it, I was getting jobs modeling for department stores and tearooms, and I even did some print modeling, too.”

“Print? You mean like magazines?”

“Yes. Advertisements. Magazines, billboards, that sort of thing.”

“It must’ve been so exciting,” I say.

“Oh yes, it was.”

“Did you make a lot of money?”

“It was certainly good money. Especially for a girl my age. And I met a lot of interesting people.” She smiles. “And, oh my, it was fun.”

“And you really think I could do it too?”

She shrugs. “You’re pretty enough. And you’re tall enough. I should think you’d have as good a chance as anyone.”

“What else do I need to do?” I ask eagerly.

She purses her lips in a thoughtful expression. “First of all, I want you to practice, practice, practice everything I’ve taught you today. Then I think you should come down to the store. I’ve been talking to the owner about having a fashion show there some evening, a little event to rev up more business. I’d planned on using some of our customers as models and, of course, they are older than you, but I think it would be a good experience for you as well.”

“Really?” I try to imagine this. “You want me to model clothes from Marley’s?”

“It will give you something to put on your résumé. Job experience. Meanwhile, we’ll have to figure a way to start putting together a portfolio for you.” She frowns as she closes her own portfolio. “I suspect you won’t be able to afford a professional photographer.”

I grimace. “Probably not.”

“Well, perhaps there are new ways to do these things.” She sighs. “I know we live in a new computer age, although I don’t even know how to use a computer, other than the cash register at work. The truth is, I barely know how to use my cellular phone. My late husband was much more adept at these things than I am. He could even take photographs with his phone.”