“Twenty minutes!” a woman with a clipboard yells. “Models, line up. Line up!”
Just as Christina pulls her brown hair through the collar of her blouse, the stylist arrives with the mended pants.
I feel the hot lens on my body again. Clicking.
The stylist fixes my hair that I messed when I was putting on the gown, the heavy fabric an extra ten pounds on my body.
“Those guys,” I say, her hands quickly fixing a loose strand by my face, “they’re not allowed to be in here.”
“Who?” She glances around, but she doesn’t see what I do. They’re right there. Not even twenty feet away, snapping pictures of all of the models, not just me. My heart is racing. They’re probably just going to write an article about Fashion Week with some backstage pictures. It’s okay.
But it doesn’t feel that way. I am worth less than the clothes I wear. I have always known this. A dress is treated with more humanity and kindness than I ever am. One of my shoots, I was told to stand in a swimming pool for four hours without a break.
It was thirty degrees outside.
The pool wasn’t heated.
And I was fourteen.
The gown, though, that was the first priority. “Don’t drop the dress, Daisy. Whatever you do, it can’t touch the water.”
Then why the hell did the photographer want to do a photo shoot in the pool, in the middle of winter?
It was one bad experience out of many. I was lucky that my mom was around, supervising, but she disappeared to network, to schmooze most of the time. Sometimes her presence really didn’t make much of a difference.
I am dazed, exhausted and hollow by the time the designer reaches me. She scrutinizes the fabric on my body, the way the dress hangs and hugs in unison.
“No,” she suddenly says.
“What?” My shoulders drop, my stomach gurgling—the sound incredibly audible. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything!” the designer shouts at me. I flinch. “You gained weight since last I saw you.”
“I didn’t,” I say. My pulse kicks up another notch. I didn’t. I know I didn’t.
“We can measure her,” the stylist suggests.
“This is wrong,” the designer touches the sleeve. “This is not on you right.” She tries to adjust the gown, but it looks right to me. I don’t see how my head is supposed to go where she’s pointing. That’s not how I wore it in the fitting.
“No, no, no.” The designer pinches my slender waistline and then her hands fall to my ass. She stretches the fabric down and then squeezes my butt. “This is too tight. Her thighs, too fat.”
I try to grin and bear it, the designer’s hands going wherever she pleases, in places that I would prefer her not to touch.
I haven’t eaten real food in days. I don’t see how I could have gained anything other than hunger. The designer just dislikes me. I must have offended her somehow.
“I want another model,” she declares. “Get her ready, the hair, the makeup. Now.”
My eyes grow big. “Wait, please, let me fix this. Don’t pull me out of the show.” I’ve walked more than one runway this week, but being fired from even a single job will displease my mom.
“The dress looks hideous on you,” she says. The models in the line watch the designer berate me with more insults. “You’re overweight. I don’t even know why others are booking you.”
Christina’s mouth has permanently fallen open.
I take each word with a blank face, but my eyes begin to burn as I hold back more emotion. “So there’s nothing I can—”
And then the designer physically pries the dress from my body. It’s all I can do to not teeter off my heels. She strips me bare. No bra. Just a nude thong. In two quick moments, I stand naked in a room of now fully-clothed people. The cold nips my arms and legs, but the embarrassment is hot on my neck.
The designer focuses on a new model. Blonde. Tall. Wiry.
The exact same size as me.
The nice stylist combs the new model’s hair. I’m alone, and no one’s going to tell me what to do, where to go, or even give me a robe to cover myself with.
When I turn, I meet the intense gaze of the camera. Click, flash. Click, flash.
It’s in this moment—eighteen, being photographed bare and nude without consent—that I feel violated by my own career. I could be fifteen right now, okay with this, told that this is what’s supposed to happen. I could be fourteen. But what difference does it make now that I’m eighteen? I’m just more aware. I see the wrongness, and the blow strikes harder and hurts greater.