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  “Oh,” I said. Because what could I say to joining that legendary rank of supes and making a million dollars during my sophomore year of college?

  “I understand that Savannah Hughes has proven herself to be an unstable individual, which is why I myself will accompany you to the interview,” Leslie said. “But I urge you to consider this opportunity if you ever meant a word you said about loving your ‘baby phat’ and wanting teenage girls to have attainable body ideals. This is not just any old go-see; you have to go in and give them everything you’ve got. Are you committed?”

  I was.

  “Very well,” Leslie said. “My car will pick you up at nine. Get some rest.”

  You’re not supposed to wear makeup to a go-see; the idea is that the client wants to see your face as a blank canvas. But when I called Andy and Syreeta to tell them about my meeting with SI, they insisted on coming over the next morning to hook me up.

  They arrived at seven a.m., and even though I’d gotten used to early calls, I still wasn’t especially cheerful first thing in the morning. Andy was another matter entirely.

  “The glam squad is here!” he announced as soon as I opened the door. He had bags and bags of hairpieces, straightening irons, curling irons. I’d seen the whole kit and caboodle but never in my own house before.

  Syreeta came in behind him with a bag of organic blueberry muffins. “Just eat the top,” she advised. And while Andy fussed with my hair, she made us all a big pot of green tea.

  Syreeta never goes anywhere without her music, so she had Leona Lewis blaring from her iPod, and the whole event started taking on a party mood.

  In the end, Andy gave me a really simple hairdo. He clipped my bangs so they were on the short side and then hot curled the rest of my hair so it fell in ringlets around my head.

  Leslie hadn’t mentioned anything about actually modeling a swimsuit at the interview, but Syreeta assured me that they were going to ask me to try one on. “It’s the cover of SI, girlfriend,” she said. “They’re going to want a peek at the goodies.”

  So she waxed my legs. OUCH. OUCH and oh yeah, DOUBLE OUCH. And rubbed them with Skin So Soft. Then she mixed a handful of glitter with the oil and rubbed it into the area right above my bra. She called it my “décolletage.” Which I think is French for the tops of your boobs.

  I wore a purple peasant top with a long gold Temple St. Clair necklace, some khaki capris, and these really fabulous purple and gold kitten heels that I’d gotten at Bottega Veneta.

  When Leslie came to pick me up, she said, “You look very nice.” Which in Leslie language translates to, “You are one babelicious model and I’m happy to be your agent.”

  When we arrived at Sports Illustrated, they took me into see “the team.” There was Doug, the photographer; Steph, the cover editor; Frankie, the stylist; and Malia Mills, this really cool swimsuit designer who was going to be designing all of the swimsuits in the issue to custom fit the plus model that they chose. Did I mention that with the exception of Malia Mills, they were all English? It was all I could do not to run from the room screaming, “The British are coming! The British are coming!”

  I was standing in a boardroom, and even though they were all sitting, no one offered me a seat. I felt a little bit like I was on the witness stand, but I did what Prageeta always called the red carpet pose: one leg slightly in front of the other, hands relaxed at your sides, head held high, spine straight.

  “So tell us about yourself, Bee,” Steph said.

  “I’m a second-semester freshman in premed at Columbia,” I said. “I’m from Philadelphia, and I’m an only child.”

  “And what do you like to do when you’re not modeling?” Doug asked.

  “What I like to do is go salsa dancing and listen to hip-hop and hang out with my friends,” I said. “What I actually do is try to cram makeup labs in for chemistry and physics. I’m trying to make the dean’s list this semester, and quantum field theory is kicking my ass.”

  “Speaking of ass,” Frankie said, smiling. “What is your greatest asset?”

  I thought about saying my booty, but ever since I got caught lying to Chela, I’d been all about telling the truth. So I said, “My greatest asset is my brain.”

  There was a lot of whispering, and everyone looked surprised. It’s over, I thought. Savannah Hughes wins again.

  Then Malia Mills spoke. “Bee, I’ve brought one of my swimsuits with me. Would you mind trying it on and giving us a little walk?”

  “Not at all,” I said, smiling.

  I went into the hall bathroom and tried the swimsuit on. It was a one-piece. Thank God. White, not the greatest for hiding bumps and lumps, but it was backless, which was nice. I took a good look in the mirror, and I liked what I saw.

  I was a little nervous about the walk. I’d never done catwalk before. Leslie always said there was no way she could book me for Fashion Week with my school schedule. I stood outside the room for a few seconds, doing the three-part yoga breath that Melody had taught me. Then I opened the door to the room and strutted my stuff.

  I tried to remember everything that my modeling pals had taught me. Prageeta had always said take big steps like you’re an Amazon goddess stomping through a village of little people. So I did. Melody always said keep your spine straight but not stiff. She said your spine is actually a beautiful instrument but one that most people never learned to play. So I tried to use my spine when I walked, swaying it just a little from side to side like a palm tree in the breeze. Elsie always said never lose eye contact with the photographer. It’s like when billionaires do business: they’re always looking to see who blinks first. So even though I was feeling my jelly belly jiggle, I never looked away from the casting team and I smiled, not too big, not too small, hopefully, hopefully, just right.

  “Thank you very much, Bee,” Doug said.

  I went back to the bathroom, changed, and went back in to shake everyone’s hands. Possibly the biggest go-see of my entire career, and it was over in less than twenty minutes.

  On the way out, Leslie and I passed Savannah Hughes in the hallway. She had lost even more weight, and I was torn between being jealous and thinking that she was way too skinny to be a plus-size supe. I said hello. But she was doing the cold and frosty thing and pretending that she didn’t see me, which suited me just fine.

  26

  Just Bee-achy

  They picked me! They picked me! I feel like some sort of Oscar winner whose speech is so long that they start playing the music and cutting her off. Leslie called me that very afternoon.

  “Congratulations, Bee,” she said. “You will be the first plus-size model to be on the cover of Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue.”

  I started screaming because I couldn’t help it. I was jumping up and down, and honestly, I guess it was everything. Landing the SI cover, being back in the modeling game, knowing that I’d beaten Savannah Hughes’s scrawny butt out of a job. I know the last thing isn’t an especially nice thing to say. But honestly, didn’t she deserve it?

  “The SI team really loved your backstory,” Leslie said. “In fact, I do believe you’ll be a first in two categories. Their first plus-size model and their first model from the Ivy League.

  “The shoot is in two weeks, so I hate to say it, darling, but it’s diet time,” she went on. “It’s swimsuit, and you are representing all the plus-size girls out there. I want no bloating and super-toned.”

  “No problem,” I said. Like I’d already said, if I couldn’t have a six-pack, I’d happily take a two-pack.

  “I’ve stepped up your sessions with Jenisa to four hours a day,” Leslie said. “You’ll meet with her from five to seven in the morning and from six to eight p.m. every night. I trust you’ll work this out with your professors.”

  “No problem,” I said. It was the end of the term, and all we had to do was prep for exams. I say “all we had to do” like it was some easy thing, but I’d learned a lot about multitasking in the past few months.
I’d get my work done.

  “Okay, very good. The shoot is in Tulum, Mexico, which I hear is just stunning, and you are going to have an excellent time. Congratulations, Bee, you’ve earned it,” Leslie said.

  I took a deep breath. “Leslie, I really want to bring a friend with me,” I said.

  I could hear her pursing her lips over the phone. “Bee, we’ve talked about this. Modeling is a business. We do not bring along our friends. Didn’t you learn anything from that three-hundred-thousand-dollar disaster that your boyfriend caused?”

  “Ex-boyfriend,” I mumbled. “It’s my friend, Chela. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have had the courage to come to your office that day,” I said. “A trip like this would mean the world to her.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. The kind of icy pause my mother gives when I ask her if she would get me something non–poncho related for my birthday, which, by the way, is only two weeks off. In fact, I’d be celebrating it in Mexico on the SI shoot. How sweet was that?

  “Hello, Leslie?” I asked, wondering if she’d put me on hold and forgotten about me.

  “Very well,” she said. “You can bring your friend. We’ll even cover her expenses. But if she comes anywhere near the set or interferes in any way—”

  “Got it,” I said. “Loud and clear.”

  Now it was my turn to stalk Chela. I walked over to her apartment and rang the doorbell.

  “Who is it?” she hollered through the intercom.

  “Bee,” I hollered back.

  “I’m not home!” she screamed down.

  “Come on, Chela, buzz me up,” I said. “I came to eat crow and kiss up.”

  The front door buzzed open.

  “Well, when you put it that way,” she said as she opened the front door to her apartment. She lived in a quad with three other suitemates, and one of them, the one we called the Human Hole because she had so many piercings, was sitting in the living room, blasting some kind of alternative rock.

  “Hola, Hole,” Chela said. I was kinda shocked that she would call the girl this to her face, but it was clear that her hearing was severely impaired.

  “A LITTLE PRIVACY!” Chela screamed.

  The Human Hole turned down the music and went into her own room. “I can hear perfectly fine,” she groused. “You don’t have to shout.”

  I sat down on the couch, but Chela wasn’t having it.

  “I didn’t say you could sit,” she said, swiveling her neck as if she was telling a particularly cruel yo mama joke.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I screwed up. Brian had me all confused, and I thought I was in love. Then all this modeling stuff happened and I didn’t know how to act;

  I mean, I’ve never been a model before. I didn’t mean to treat you like you were some sort of plebeian. You’re my best friend, and I want to make up.”

  Chela sucked her teeth and put her hand on her hip. “Let me think about it.”

  I said, “Can you think quick? Because I’ve got this crazy sweet photo shoot in Tulum, Mexico, in two weeks and I want to take you with me, but I have to book your ticket today.”

  She looked really serious and started swivel necking all over again. “See, Bee, this is why you and me can’t hang anymore. You can’t just buy my friendship like that . . .”

  Then she burst out laughing. “I’m just joking. Tulum? Are you serious? I’m in.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “Can I sit down now?”

  And while the Human Hole tried to turn the whole building deaf with her music, we sat on the couch and caught up on our lives, book, chapter, and verse.

  Two weeks later, Chela and I were in front of my building waiting for the Town Car to pick us up. She was wearing some vintage Bianca Jagger–style jumpsuit that I swear only skinny girls can get away with. I was wearing my favorite Matthew Williamson sundress and a cardigan. I had on cute shoes, but I’d tucked a pair of flip-flops inside my Jimmy Choo tote bag in case it was a long trip and I gave in to the need for comfort. A Town Car pulled up.

  The driver came out of the car and said, “Ms. Chesterfield wants to make sure you have your passport with you.”

  Of course I did.

  “Just double-check,” Chela said as she pulled out hers.

  I rummaged through my bag. No passport. I ran back upstairs to get it.

  What was that mess I was talking about my greatest asset being my brain?

  Inside the terminal, Chela went off to the bookstore to get us a stack of magazines and two copies of the new Lisa Scottoline mystery to keep us occupied on the plane. I had popped into the bathroom when I realized there was a girl hot on my heels; she almost followed me into the stall! I turned around. She was around my age, but her hair was cut in this awkward way that made it look like a duck’s bottom. She was a few sizes bigger than me. I’d guess she was a size eighteen. But I’d also guess that the clothes she was wearing were a size twenty-two.

  “Hi, can I help you?” I asked.

  “Are you one of those Baby Phat girls?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You’re my idol. I mean, all of you are my idols. I work in the concession stand here, and as soon as I save up enough money, I’m going to go to modeling school so I can be a plus-size model too.”

  I sighed. Who was I to dash her dreams? But she was five-foot two. The chances of her becoming a plus-size model were not good, not good at all. Not to mention Leslie had told me dozens of horror stories about modeling schools and other places that take your money in order to get you into the business.

  “You should never pay someone to get you into modeling,” I said. “But I’m wondering, why do you want to be a model?”

  The girl looked down at her shoes. “So people will stop calling me fat,” she said.

  I lifted her chin and then told her the sad truth. “People still call me fat. My boyfriend called me fat not long ago. Being a model isn’t going to stop people from being mean to you. In some ways, it just makes you more vulnerable.”

  “But you’re famous. I see you everywhere, on TV and in magazines and on billboards. It must feel good to see your face everywhere.”

  I couldn’t lie; it did. But I wondered, “Before you wanted to be a model, what did you want to be?”

  “I wanted to be a travel agent,” she said. “That’s why I got a job at the airport. I love to be near planes. Even if I don’t go anywhere, it makes me happy.”

  “Then you should look into that,” I said. “Your life starts now. Not five pounds from now.”

  She had tears in her eyes and said, “Could I give you a hug?”

  I said okay and hugged her.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I really, really have to pee,” I said.

  I went into the stall and thought—what a strange thing. I’d had an entire conversation with that girl about her hopes and dreams and fears, and I didn’t even know her name.

  When we got to the resort, it turns out that it wasn’t a traditional hotel. We would all be sleeping in these little palapas on the beach. Chela and I had one all to ourselves. So many people I knew were there. Melody, while not on the cover, would be featured in the magazine, and both Andy and Syreeta would be doing my hair and makeup.

  Every morning, at five a.m., Melody led us all in a yoga class on the beach. We were in hair and makeup at six, started shooting at eight, then worked until two p.m., when the sun got too hot.

  Every afternoon at four, Chela and I had surf lessons. Which was, as you can imagine, pretty funny. Chela kept popping up too soon. And I kept paddling out too long. But it was so cool.

  The last night of the shoot was my birthday, and all day long, nobody said anything. So I thought, You know what? No biggie. I’m in Mexico, modeling these fabulous swimsuits, hanging with two of my best friends, and having a great time. That night, Chela and I were finally going to do some dancing because I hadn’t been able to go out any of the other nights because of my early call time.


  Chela wore this floral print Roberto Cavalli dress that the stylist had given her, and I wore a long Caribbean blue dress I’d bought from J. Crew. We both decided to go barefoot since we’d walk along the beach from our palapa to the hotel restaurant and bar.

  The bar overlooks the pool, and there’s like a hundred tin Mexican lanterns hanging above the bar, all throwing off different-colored light. When we got there, it was strangely quiet. Then I heard a very familiar voice call out, “Happy birthday, Beatrice!”

  It was Leslie, who must’ve flown in special for the occasion, Melody, and the whole photo crew. There was a long table in the restaurant set for twenty, and there was an orchid on every plate.

  Before we sat down, Doug, the photographer, handed me a gigantic box to unwrap. Inside, there was a hot pink surfboard signed by the whole Sports Illustrated team.

  “Congratulations, Bee,” Doug said, giving me the fashion two-cheek kiss. “It’s rare in this industry to find such a combination of brains and beauty. You’ve got a bright future ahead of you.”

  “I’d like to toast to that,” Leslie said, raising her glass.

  “Salud!” Chela called out.

  “Salud!” we all answered back as we clinked glasses.

  At the end of the evening, after dinner and a round of margaritas, the waiters brought out a cake with eighteen candles. I blew them out, but I have to tell you a secret. For the first time I didn’t wish for a thing, not for a pair of the latest hot jeans or for a boy to like me back, nothing—except for the good sense to know how lucky I was and to appreciate each and every otherworldly moment that being a model threw my way.

  27

  Bee Loved

  I didn’t think anything could top the Sports Illustrated shoot, but the week after we got back, Leslie called to say that I’d been chosen to host the Teen Choice Awards.