Don't Laugh

She was definitely a new face, Tess thought, eyeing her critically. Her body was thin and long-limbed, her hair cascaded in thick, dark waves down her back, her breasts (from what she could tell, given the way they were squished against Mr. Perfect’s chest), were toned and pert. So no flaws there. But her face was far from ideal. Her eyes were a little too large, her mouth too wide, her nose too prominent, her cheekbones too pronounced. Still, there was no denying that the girl, whoever she was, perfectly captured the current rage in female models.

“You’re way prettier than her.”

Tess spared Julie Churchill, her best friend, a glance, then returned her attention to the magazine. “Maybe,” she allowed. “but she’s got that look, you know?”

“It doesn’t matter. It won’t last. She’s too masculine or something. You ready?”

“How old do you think she is?”

Julie peered at the ad. “Um… I don’t know. Seventeen. Maybe eighteen.”

“She looks younger than that to me. Don’t you think?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Look. So what if she is fourteen? What could that possibly—”

“So you do think she’s fourteen.”

“Oh, my God.”

Most top models entered the industry at the age of ten or twelve. Some as early as two. Certainly no later than fourteen. At seventeen, Tess was already years beyond her prime. Biting back another tirade over her parents’ unfairness for insisting she graduate high school before attempting to launch a modeling career, she gave the Vogue a frustrated shake. “I mean, just look at her. She’s in middle school and she’s already in Vogue, for God’s sake—”

Julie snatched the magazine from her lap and tossed it aside. “I know, I get it. She’s a baby and you’re ancient. Your parents just don’t understand how the industry works. Blah, blah, blah. There’s nothing you can do about it now, right? So quit worrying, stand up, and let’s get moving. Let’s at least try, all right?”

Tess ground her teeth in irritation, biting back a stinging reply. There was the real world, and then there was Julie’s world, where things just magically happened because you crossed your fingers, checked your horoscope, and hoped really hard. And even though she was one-hundred-percent convinced Julie’s plan wasn’t going to work, she had to at least try. She stood and stationed herself against the wall between the window and the bed. “How’s this?”

“Good.” Julie clicked the shutter and waited. “Well? Do something!”

A nervous bubble of laughter escaped Tess’s lips. “This is stupid. What am I supposed to do?”

“How would I know? You’re the expert. Do whatever models do. Toss your hair around or something. Purse your lips so you look annoyed and glamorous at the same time. Oh, wait— that reminds me...” She punched a button on her CD player. A rough cut, garage band version of Do You Think I’m Sexy? filled the room.

“Oh, my God. This is so embarrassing.”

Julie lowered her camera with an annoyed sigh. “Okay. Let’s just pretend for a minute that every guy you’ve ever met doesn’t stop and stare at you when you walk into a room. That waiters and waitresses, grocery store clerks, even total strangers in the street, don’t stumble over their words when they try to talk to you. That you haven’t known since sixth grade that you were destined ditch your unbelievably fabulous best friend —moi— and become a totally rich, stuck up supermodel who only hangs out with rock stars and Hollywood celebrities.” She smiled. “Now. Will you please quit freaking out and get your gorgeous butt moving?”

“Fine. Just don’t laugh.”