5. 1994

BUNNY

Iwoke as the first ray of sunlight streamed through my window. It warmed my face for a beautiful second, and then the clouds that overcast the sky take over once again. Leaning over the edge of the mattress, I fling back the curtains, checking for signs of rain. Thankfully, it seems to have ceased, at least for this moment. I don't trust it, though. The clouds are still as angry as yesterday, heavy and as black as night.

Worried that the rain will start falling any minute, I jump out of bed, flinging off my bra and panties on my way to the shower. I don't wait for the water to get hot before throwing myself under the spray. The icy pour pelts against my spine, shocking me upright, waking me instantly.

"Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay," I chant through my teeth, ignoring the frozen sting while I spear my fingers through my hair. The generic shampoo on the wall makes my already tangled hair atrocious, but with enough work and massaging, the conditioner returns the amber ends to silk.

My hair is what usually takes the most effort. With it being as thick and long as it is, it didn't usually give me much time in the shower at Denise's. We were timed, no more than ten minutes. Craig didn't enforce those rules, but a few weeks in, he started joining me. It bothered me. I wanted my privacy, my time, my space, but it was his home. His rules. Now, though? I dance under the spray, my hair clean and my body covered in suds. No timer. No partner. I only feel the butterflies in my chest for what I'm going to experience today.

All my excitement rushes through me as I step out of the shower. It drips from my skin, splashing on the beige tile floors. I feel it flushing my cheeks, and I see how much when I wipe the fog away from the large rectangular mirror. My face hurts from all my smiling, but I can't stop. It bubbles past my lips, dancing around my ears until I'm screaming in the room.

"I can't believe this is happening!" So many thoughts fly through my head as I run my fingers through my hair. The main one being the doubts.

I'm beautiful.

I'm confident.

I know I can do this.

But the voices never stop. The doubts I've been fed still live in my mind. I've told myself so many times they aren't true. Denise was wrong. Craig was weak. I am going to be the best model since Cindy Crawford. I just—I need to shut out the voices.

"You're going to be amazing." I make sure to look myself in the eye as I say it. I owe myself that much respect.

Sighing, letting that weight fall off my shoulders, I drop the towel and eye my lithe figure. Yeah. "You're going to be amazing."

* * *

Noon came sooner than I'd been prepared for.

I've visited three shops, all of which were far out of my price limit. They knew it, too. The second I stepped my worn, thrifted, off-white Nike Air Jordans onto their pristine, thousand-dollar carpets, they knew I didn't belong there. Still, no one said a word to me as I browsed between racks, not even a peep when I picked up beautiful dresses, only to put them back a moment later.

Nope. They were silent.

But their eyes…

Their eyes said what I'd heard my entire life.

Trash.

I walked away from them with my head high, but now I'm stepping into a beautiful brick building in old shoes, straight, baggy jeans, and a white cropped tank top with a grey and tan flannel thrown over. There's nothing special about my outfit, but the clothes don't make the woman.

I do.

Inside the lobby of these expensive lofts, Michael waits with another drink in hand. Tea this time, by the looks of it, fresh with the bag still dangling from the string. He stands to meet me once I cross the threshold, a wide smile on his face.

"So glad you decided to come."

Shaking his hand, I return his grin. "I wouldn't have missed this for the world."

"Well, great," he responds, as his eyes run over my outfit before meeting my stare. "Let's go! Colette is waiting."

Taking my hand, Michael guides me toward the large elevator in the back, not letting me go until we're inside the mirrored box. The image of me is multiplied by thousands, so I use one of them to adjust my hair and outfit, making sure every strand is in place and my shirt hasn't ridden up too high.

God, I should have worn something better, even if I had to steal it off someone's clothesline. I should look…better.

"Don't worry about what you look like, Bernice. I already told you Colette has everything you need."

Fluffing my roots, I utter, "I just want to make a good impression."

Michael spins to face me, uncrossing his arms from his chest. "Want my advice?"

I let my hands fall from my hair before looking him in the eye. "Yes."

He pauses to watch me with a glittering gaze. His smirk barely lifts the corner of his lips, but it holds my attention all the same. "My advice," Michael starts, taking the ends of my hair, "is to listen. Don't think. Don't speak. Follow her orders, and you'll see yourself in a way you've never expected."

He"s still holding on to my hair when the elevator doors open into a vast, bright space. I feel time still, and sound fade to nothing as I turn to my right. My breath leaves me as I take in the solid white room, never returning, even when I take further steps inside.

"Colette!" Michael shouts somewhere behind me, but I can't focus on him, not when I take in where I'm standing.

Lights, cameras—large, umbrella-shaped reflectors, everything is laid out in perfect unison around a black and grey portrait backdrop. I take in the set, my hands folded across my stomach. I knew I'd get here, but holy shit. I can't believe I got here.

"Bernice. Bernice."

Snapping out of my overwhelming emotions, I slap a smile on my face, extending my hand on instinct for the woman coming my way.

Colette is stunning in a way I've never seen before. Her short, jet-black hair is slicked to her scalp, highlighting her razor-sharp cheekbones and plump, ruby-red lips. Twinkling like Peridot gemstones, her eyes hold promise and freedom, like she knows she will be the one to change my life.

"You're everything I was looking for." Her voice, silk and smoke, filters into the air, capturing my breath in my throat. "Michael, how did you find her?"

"She was working in a coffee shop on East First, wiping crumbs and sweeping floors."

"The best ones always are," Colette mumbles with a grin. Sharing a fleeting look with Michael, she takes my hand.

I follow her to the back of the studio, listening to the sound of her heeled boots clicking on the concrete ground. I'm still in disbelief that this is actually happening to me. With butterflies trapped in my throat, I twist around, watching Michael take a seat on a cream Vladimir Kagan swivel chair. Elbow perched on knee, he sends me a wave, shooting me a thumbs-up before checking his beeping pager.

"Okay, Bernice. Bernice?" She pauses, standing me in the center of the excess backdrop, head tilted to the left as she studies me. "You don't look like a Bernice to me." Her comment doesn't affect me because I agree. I never looked in the mirror and saw a ‘Bernice.'

"Back home, everyone calls me Bunny."

"Bunny," she repeats, holding the Kodak AP NC2000 at eye level. "Yeah. That's better. Smile for me, Bunny." The shudder of the camera goes off in rapid succession, leaving me no time to change my expression. I worry I'm boring. I mean, all I've done is smile, but Colette looks pleased, her grin almost as wide as mine.

"Beautiful, Bunny! Little less teeth, more of a pout. I want to see all the want in your eyes."

I listen to her praises while making the changes, feeling my confidence rise. The energy coming from behind the camera, mixing with the adrenalin rushing through my veins, turns my ivory skin a rosy blush. Not wanting to appear crimson red in the photos, I yank off my flannel, displaying my taut midsection. The shuttering sound falls silent once the fabric hits the ground, making me think I did something wrong.

"Oh, I?—"

"How do you feel about showing a little skin? You okay with that?"

"Uh, yeah. That's fine. I can do that." Kicking the flannel farther with my feet, I grip the end of my shirt, yanking it over and away from my head. My plain, grey cotton bra with white lace trim is exposed. I finger the little white bow in the center, subtly touching my racing heart while she and Michael observe.

"Stunning," is all Colette says, bringing the camera back up. It takes a little longer for the nerves to vanish this time, but when they do, I tangle my hands in my hair, closing my eyes as my ends brush against my back.

The ticking of the camera is endless, allowing me to lose myself in the rush of the moment. My body moves on its own, trying different poses, many faces, and just enough breath to keep me standing.

I think we got the photo, the one she'll keep, the one she'll pass around to designers and agencies. The one that'll make me, but then the camera stops again. Her footsteps resonate in my mind, and her request comes as a shock.

"Okay, now the jeans."

Inhaling, I bring my hands together at the button. My fingers tremble as they unclasp the metal from the loop, but that doesn't stop me from hooking my fingers in the belt holes. Dragging the denim down my legs, I keep my eyes on the ground, collecting my scattering breaths before standing.

"Bra."

My stare shoots to Michael, and he mouths the words he said earlier. "Don't think. Don't speak. Follow her orders."

Giving myself a mental nod, I reach behind, touching the delicate clasp holding my bra together. For a second, I doubt what I'm doing, but it only lasts a second. You're going to be a star.

My bra joins the rest of my clothing on the floor, leaving me in nothing but my grey bikini panties. I wait for further instructions with my arms crossed over my chest, blocking out the apprehension that rises on my skin. When did the room get so cold? Why did the lights suddenly become blinding?

"Now, let"s see that beautiful body, Bunny," Colette calls out, gathering my attention with a snap of her fingers. My eyes find her over the camera lens. Shark-like is the only way to describe them; deep, focused—calculated. Colette is an artist. She knows what's best.

Don't think. Don't fight.

I drop my arms slowly, baring myself to the flashing camera. It takes more than a minute this time. With both their eyes on me, I fight the wave of discomfort that ripples throughout my system. I have to remind myself Colette and Michael aren't like Denise's boyfriends. They aren't looking at me with lust, but with seasoned concentration. It's clinical, purely to get the best shot.

"Beautiful, Bunny! Beautiful!" she shouts, making my confidence soar. Soon, I don't feel any anxiety. My limbs are loose. My smile is wide. And the camera…

Oh, it doesn't stop.

"I told you she'd be perfect." Letting the camera fall against her midsection, Colette stares me down. Her mouth never moves, but I know whatever she's thinking, it's going to change my life.

"Are you busy tomorrow night, Bunny?"

"No," I respond immediately, crossing my arms over my chest on my way to the pile of clothes. She waits until I fling my shirt over my head before saying, "A friend of mine is having a little gathering at his South Hampton home tomorrow. You should come."

"Really? Why?"

"It's called networking, dear. I may be able to get your foot in the door with these photos, but Marone? Well, let's just say he can blow that door into pieces."

A flash of a bright future, the vision of me on the cover of billboards, magazines…it's enough to have a "Yes" flying from my lips.

"Great." Colette smiles, turning her back on me to stroll to the long, rectangular wooden table pressed against the far wall. I don't take my eyes off her moving pen as I drag my pants over my hips. I'm fully dressed by the time she returns. Card in hand, she extends it forward, a smile in her eyes and a grin on her lips.

"I'll see you there." Dragging her sharp stare across my outfit, her smirk grows. "And make sure to wear something nice. A cocktail dress."

Slightly insecure, I cross my arms over my chest, feeling my smile fall faintly. "I don't—" Swallow. "I don't have a cocktail dress."

"A gown will work just fine."

I shake my head, apprehension growing. "Um, no. I don't?—"

"A little black dress?" I don't think she's talking about the chain cut-out bodycon I stole from Denise.

My no isn't necessary. Colette sees my answer written across my face.

"Don't worry. Michael will take care of you." With that, she shoves us out of her studio, mumbling about her next appointment before closing the door on us.

Together, Michael and I head to the first floor. He tells me how great I was, how he knew I would be perfect for this, but all I can think about is the dress. Something so small shouldn't have brought down my day, but I don't even have a simple black dress. It's a little but stinging slap across the face that maybe I'm not equipped for this.

"I know what you're thinking about. Don't worry about it. As Colette said, I will take care of everything and have a dress at your hotel door by tomorrow morning."

"How will you know what to get? You don't know my size. What kind of shoes I wear… Is this even your job? I thought you were just a scout."

"I'm whatever my bosses need me to be, and right now, they need me to be a stylist. So don't worry. I'll handle everything."

Michael starts to walk away, his hair bouncing as he strolls toward the exit. He almost makes it out before I call after him.

"Don't you need my hotel? My room number?"

"Already got it!" he says, leaving me alone to wonder how.