My face felt hot as I glanced from the agent to Sadie. I wanted to check in with her—was this something to be proud of?
I felt a strange sense of confidence rise up in me as the agents nodded approvingly. I was the “sexy” one, and everyone around me seemed to agree that was a good thing. It made me different and special, and maybe even powerful. I wrapped my hands around my rib cage and pushed my boobs up farther, smiling.
* * *
One of the Britney songs everyone but me loved was “Lucky.” In the video Britney appears in two roles: she sings the lyrics, acting as a kind of narrator while watching over her other, more glamorous self, who receives awards and basks in the adulation of her fans. This second Britney lives in a huge, fancy, empty house and walks around alone in a pink robe and diamond necklace, staring into an old-fashioned hand mirror. At times, there are three Britneys in the frame: the narrator, the adored and lonely Britney, and the latter’s reflection. Sad Britney was not what I wanted to see. I didn’t want to hear about how lonely she felt despite all her success. The video ends as glamorous Britney rolls over in her bed, her makeup smeared and a look in her eye not unlike the one we’d see just a few years later, as she stared into a mirror with a clipper in her hand.
She’s so lucky, she’s a star
But she cry, cry, cries in her lonely heart, thinking
If there’s nothing missing in my life
Then why do these tears come at night?
I don’t ever recall liking modeling, really, and I’ve often wondered whether Sadie did either. I remember watching myself in a mirror once at a shoot, though, professionally made up, looking years older than I actually was, opening my mouth, pushing my lips out, and arching my back as the photographer clicked away. I liked my image in that moment, or at least I was struck by that girl: I was desirable; I was wanted; and I knew that if any girl from school （particularly Sadie） saw me like this, she’d be wild with jealousy. So even when I felt scared and uneasy at the apartments of middle-aged male photographers, who had me change in their tiny bathrooms, where I was surrounded by their deodorants and shaving kits and condoms, and who, as I emerged into their “studios,” asked me whether I had a boyfriend or made comments about my body, I told myself I was lucky. I had photographic evidence of my value, and I was even beginning to save some money.
Lost in an image, in a dream …
And the world is spinning, and she keeps on winning
In high school, when I told people I was debating between college and a full-time modeling career, they’d warn me, “Models have an age limit. Their careers are over by thirty.” This always annoyed me. I thought those saying it were being sexist and ageist, implying that women couldn’t be older and still be beautiful. But now, I think they were right, even if by accident. Maybe women can’t keep winning past the age of thirty.
Sadie and I drifted apart during her senior and my junior year. We’d never known how to be real friends, anyway—how to protect each other, how to talk about the things that happened to us at house parties or at castings or with agents. Early in our friendship, we began seeing one another as competitors rather than allies.
During the last summer we spent together, we hung out with a group of boys who made a habit of sneaking into a rich kid’s parents’ home. Mike was out of the picture by then, and we came to rely on this new place as our crash pad on late nights. We’d crawl in through a window and listen carefully, making sure no one was home. We’d push past one another to claim our rooms. Staying there felt safer than staying at Mike’s ever had, even though we were undoubtedly breaking and entering.
One night I spent there with my boyfriend, I got my period in my sleep, gushing bright red blood all over the master bedroom’s sheets. When we woke up, my boyfriend was convinced our cover would be blown, and that the kid’s parents would have us all sent away for life because of the bloody mess I’d made of their bed. He looked at me in a panic and, embarrassed, I went and told Sadie what had happened.
Sadie followed me back into the bedroom, calmly took the sheets off the bed, and walked to the bathroom without saying a word. She pushed up her sleeves and ran cold water in the sink. I watched from behind her as the water turned brown and red. She wrung them out with her hands and then put the sheets in the washing machine. It might’ve been the only time I ever felt as if she was truly my friend. When I thanked her, she shrugged it off as nothing.
Eventually Sadie went off to college in San Francisco. Whenever I saw an update about her on Facebook, my stomach would tighten and twist with anxiety, remembering our time spent together and the person I was at fifteen. I stayed abreast of her life, routinely checking in on her social media every couple of months to see what she was up to. She cut her hair super short. She bleached it blond. She fell in love with a much older, punk-looking guy. She broke up with him. Her legs got skinnier, I noticed. She visited Japan. She moved to LA. She went to art school. She stopped wearing clothes that showed her legs at all.