I Didn't Come Here to Make Friends (5 page)

Never marry a guy who lets you pick up the check.

Never marry a man with a pageboy haircut.

Learn to love football if you want to see your husband.

Do not wear strong perfume. Men hate that.

Nothing good ever happens between the hours of 10:00
P.M.
and 6:00
A.M
.

Marry someone with a nice last name (not Horne or Dick).

Marry someone who loves you more than you love him.

Never marry a man with intentions of changing him.

You have your whole life to let a man screw it up.

Chris hated Jono but I was unwilling to end my sexual liaison because I was learning so much and finally feeling confident and sexy. It all blew up in my face on Valentine’s Day. I got both of them boxers with little hearts on them from the Gap. But Chris was over it—and me. I got an urgent call from my sister Rachel, a hostess at Z’Tejas Southwestern Grill in the mall, who snitched that Chris was there with a leggy soccer player named Brandy.

I was shattered. Heartbroken for the first time in my life, I sobbed for days, listened to Coldplay’s “Yellow” on repeat, and tried unsuccessfully to console myself in Jono’s sad arms. Chris was the most popular guy at his school and he liked
me,
Unibrow Robertson. The popular guys at my school avoided me like Paula Deen at a Jay-Z concert. My mom, of course, ordered me to “snap out of it,” but I was so overcome with grief, I started giving away my shifts at A&F because I couldn’t face Chris or bear to bump into him with Brandy.

I also wanted Chris to miss me.

A month later, he found an excuse to call me. The store had put up flyers announcing that they were looking for a fresh new face for the Abercrombie and Fitch brand. They encouraged employees to apply.

“I think you’re perfect for this,” Chris said. “You should enter.”

I had never seriously thought about being a model, with my bad haircut, pepperoni face from pimples, and giant slouching shoulders. I imagined how proud Chris would be if I won—my face plastered on the side of the A&F shopping bag—so I decided to go for it. How could he resist me if I was a famous model?

I had one week to get into tip-top shape. First, I went on a crash diet: instead of eating McDonald’s cheeseburgers and Taco Bell chalupas, I only ate Cheez-Its from the vending machine. Then I started running like a cheetah at the gym. I even woke up in the middle of the night and sprinted around the block a few times.

When I felt my pale body was ready to be photographed, I enlisted my dad to take pictures of me lounging on a blow-up raft in a pool wearing a light blue bikini. I also posed on a white patio chair and, after shyly practicing my smile in the mirror, did some closeups of my face. After my dad got the pictures developed at a one-hour photo my mom acted as photo editor and chose her favorite shots. Then we mailed the packet off into the abyss.

About a week later, I was studying at my friend Emily’s house (that’s a lie, actually she was writing a paper for me) when my cell phone rang. It was an Ohio number.

“Hi, this is John from Abercrombie and Fitch.”

I almost fainted. John Urbano was the creative director at A&F.

“I’m calling to see if you’d like to travel with us to the British Virgin Islands for a week to shoot our next marketing campaign.”

“Are you sure?” I squealed. “Are you really picking me?”

After assuring me he was serious, he asked if I had a passport (I didn’t) and informed me that I’d be making $1,200 per day. I made $5.25 an hour working in the A&F store.

After we hung up, I told Emily I had to go and sped home as fast as I could. I waited for our six o’clock dinner to start, then sprang the news on my parents over a bowl of spaghetti.

“I have exciting news,” I started. “But before I tell you, you have to promise to really hear me out. This is something I’d really love to do.”

“Out with it!” my mom barked.

As I announced that I had won the A&F contest, my dad had tears in his eyes. I could tell that even my mom, who was never easily impressed, was blown away. For the first time in my life, I felt like I had made my parents proud.

A week later, during my high school’s spring break week, I was on a red-eye flight alone to the British Virgin Islands. I went despite the objections of Jono, who was furious I was leaving and worried I’d be naked 24/7 with hot male models. “I can’t believe you’d take your clothes off for money,” he ranted manipulatively. As I looked down at the passport necklace my dad bought me, I realized I’d never been away from my family for a week. I’d never been out of the country. I hoped I wasn’t about to be sold into sex slavery or have my organs stolen.

“It’s time to toughen up,” I told myself.

Then I turned on my Discman and played Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles” over and over until I drifted off to sleep.