Behind His Lens(4)

“Sometimes girls just wanna dance!” she sings loudly into the phone; actually so loud that the small Asian man in the business suit crossing by offers me a snide glare. I try to shoot him an apologetic nod, but he’s already looking down at his phone.

“Alright, Crazy. Some of us have to look our best in about…” I glance down at my thin, cream leather watch. “Five minutes ago! Crap!”

“Knock em’ dead, sister. Make sure you sneak pictures of the male models for me, though. I can’t get through a day at the accounting firm unless there are booty pictures being delivered every hour, on the hour.”

I toss my head back and laugh at the idea. Naomi works for a prestigious accounting firm in the Financial District. Knowing her outside of work makes it nearly impossible to imagine her having a straight-laced corporate job, but she loves it. But, while she works a nine-to-five, my days rarely fit into standard working hours.

“I have no clue when this shoot will wrap, but I’ll call you when I get off.”

“Sounds good,” she mumbles into the phone as I hear her open her front door to grab her latte.

As soon as I click off the call, I pull open the heavy glass door to the studios and rush inside the sleek building. I’ve been here so many times over the past two years; I know the layout like the back of my hand. I dart across the lobby and press the elevator call button, willing the glossy metal doors to open magically before me. But, of course, the old monster barely clanks to life and I’m left teetering between waiting or darting toward one of the hidden staircases.


As I’m waiting for the elevator with antsy feet, a few other crew members funnel in through the glass door. I sigh, twisting around to offer them a simple smile. Good to know I won’t be the only late one. I usually strive to be on time. In fact, being late is a major pet peeve of mine— Just one of the engrained etiquette rules from my Upper West Side upbringing. But honestly, nothing tells someone they don’t matter to you quite like showing up late for a meeting or date.

My body shuffles back and forth as I watch the numbers illuminate above the elevator doors. I’m silently praying to the speedy-elevator gods (they exist) when two girls come to stand next to me. I subtly slide my gaze toward them. From their wild pink and purple hair, I know right away they’re part of the hair crew. Why is it that people who do hair for a living always seem to have the wackiest styles themselves? Maybe they get bored with the same ol’ same ol’ everyday.

“You’re Charley Whitlock, right?” The girl with pink hair asks shyly. When she speaks, I realize she’s probably close to my age, if not younger. She’s got bright pink eye shadow caked over her eyelids and solid black gages piercing her dainty ears. Total rocker chick. I wish I could pull off the look half as well.

“Oh, um, yes.” I smile and take a sip of my coffee just as the elevator doors open and we step inside.

I don’t get recognized very much, and honestly, it makes me more uncomfortable than anything else. That’s not why I became a model; it’s just a troubling side effect that comes along with it. I never had to worry about it in the past, but lately my jobs have picked up drastically. I’m doing more editorials and inserts than ever before. Obviously, my agent, Janet, is thrilled and keeps pushing me to do more and more, but soon I’ll have to tell her that I want to cut back. I model for the money and that’s it. Modeling isn’t my passion, not like painting is.

I stumbled into modeling my senior year of college and everything happened in a flash. At the time, I’d been looking for a way to make ends meet, knowing I wanted to paint full time. Modeling honestly seemed like the perfect fit until I realized that my quiet life might soon be threatened.

I shrug off the uneasy feeling and remind myself that the girl only recognized me because she’s in the fashion industry, and she’s obviously working on the shoot. To most people I’m still a nobody.

That reassuring thought settles the nerves that had bloomed in my stomach right as the elevator dings, alerting us that we’re on level three. The moment the doors slide open, the photo shoot unravels before me like a three-ring circus. Loud music pounds from a stereo system, pumping a heavy beat through the entire room. People are darting around in every direction. Stylists are picking accessories and shoes, while tossing away the rejects into a messy pile. Their assistants are steaming the wrinkles out of dozens of couture gowns that hang like pieces of art in need of worship. Photographers are already checking the lighting and marks for the planned shots.