One night, I woke in darkness, Sadie’s head right next to mine on the pillow, her face turned away from me. I could make out her thick ponytail, slightly messy. Hands were reaching over her, touching me. My breasts were out of my shirt and Mike was squeezing my nipples. I froze, staring at the back of Sadie’s head, as I realized what was happening. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep, sighed, and then rolled over onto my stomach, out of Mike’s reach. Goosebumps covered my torso and arms. I felt the cold air coming through the window above me and tried to breathe it in, hoping to soothe myself back to sleep.
I never told Sadie or anyone else about this late-night experience. Had I imagined it, anyway? I told myself that in choosing to reach over Sadie’s body to touch mine, Mike had complimented me. I told myself this was the kind of thing that would make Sadie jealous, which I knew was true. Your boyfriend likes my boobs better than yours, I thought. Did it give me some power over her? I even started to convince myself that I liked the feel of Mike’s touch. Maybe I was into it? Turned on, even? I knew that if Sadie found out, she’d blame me.
* * *
That same summer, Sadie and I would stop by Ford’s offices together on our weekday trips to LA when we had some extra time in between castings or needed to wait out the traffic before making the two-hour-plus commute home. Sadie would screech into the parking lot of the fancy West Hollywood high-rise and brake at the valet station with a jolt, our heads snapping forward. We’d climb out, the smell of French fries emerging with us and my legs tingling from being seated for so long. Sadie was confident in the high heels we wore on these outings, and I’d admire her gait as I stumbled behind in mine, watching the bikini string tied around her neck bounce as she moved. We both knew to always wear our bikinis underneath our outfits whenever we came by the agency.
On this particular visit, we were coming to pose for “digitals,” the unretouched and “honest” pictures the agents sent to clients as references. Once we were on the twelfth floor, in an office surrounded by huge windows offering panoramic views of Sunset Boulevard and the hills above it, we stripped down to our heels and bikinis. I remember leaning over, surrounded by agents in the middle of that large, open space, pretending to adjust my heel in order to make sure my tampon string remained hidden in my bottoms.
I was allowed to buy one bathing suit each summer, and the one I wore for that afternoon had seen better days. Sadie and I had spent our entire summer at the beach, and my bright red top was fading and frayed. Booking jobs that paid meant I could get a new bikini and shiny white patent-leather high heels like the ones Sadie was wearing that day. Money meant freedom and a whole other kind of power that I was only beginning to understand but felt desperate for.
The strings of my bikini wrapped around my rib cage, pushing my boobs up and together. I arched my back and stuck my butt out as I walked dutifully behind a young assistant, past the agents sitting at their computers.
“That body,” crooned a gay male agent, his eyes flashing up at me as I walked by. I grinned.
Sadie had her pictures taken after me, pushing her chin down and squinting her eyes slightly as she shifted her weight to pop a hip out. Her bikini was black and low and hit her hips just at the right point. I watched her, comparing our dimensions in my head. I felt too curvy, maybe even fat, and definitely too short next to Sadie in her heels.
“Work it, girl,” the assistant said as he watched Sadie move and pose. I stood up straighter and sniffed the air, trying to see if I could smell my BO.
As soon as the digitals were done, the agent snapped, “Let’s take a look at your books, girls,” spinning around in his office chair, waving us over.
We shuffled over to his wide desk, still half naked, clutching our oversized white portfolios.
“Girls, you leave these in the hot car too often, I can tell. The plastic pages are wrinkling.” He tsk-tsked, flipping through page after page of our pictures. “Can we get these girls some new books?” Sadie and I exchanged glances, knowing these new portfolios would show up as deductions in the fine print of our next paychecks.
I peered down as he paused at side-by-side, up-close images of my face, my lips pursed and mouth open on one page and my eyes half closed on the other.
“Now this is the look. This is how we know this girl gets fucked!” He pointed down at the pictures.
Sadie shoved me and smirked. “It’s true,” a female agent chimed in from her desk. “We always know which girls are having sex by their pictures.”