She could feel the pulse of the music in her veins, strumming through every cell in her body. Each nerve throbbing, a livewire…. Lights dancing on her skin in a play of color….
BANG.
She stepped onto the runway, the strobe lights a chameleon of color alight of foot on her snowy skin. Her silken Versace dress billowed around her, geometrical shapes cut out of the torso, showing patches of her skin. She had eyeshadow up to her eyebrows, her hair was curled like there was no tomorrow, and her five inch stilettos clicking on the crystal catwalk… Life was perfect.
She posed, doing a flourish as she turned. Cameras flashed in a sea of rolling light, earning a small smirk on her face as she disappeared behind the runway, immediately sliding out of her first dress and slipping into another one. This time it was a blinding red with a neckline that plunged down to her waist, the train behind her at least a foot away from her heels. She shook her out from behind her ears and stomped back onto the runway, gliding over the ground.
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Am I famous?
Sure.
Am I rich?You could say that.
Why am I famous?
I had never really thought about that question until I picked up the latest issue of Vogue, smiling as I saw my own face on the cover. I was posing in an asylum, thick, black eyeshadow fanning out from my eyes and clothed in a dress that looked like it had got in an argument with a chainsaw. My face was looking, as Tyra Banks would put it, fierce, mouth slightly open, hands like snakes as the wrapped around the steel bars encaging me. I flipped it open, casually looking at the pages when a small, almost unnoticeable "magazine" (it was only a few pages long) caught my eye. Vogue slipped out of my hands, making contact with the ground with a loud slap. I slowly grasped the magazine in my hands, staring at it.
KAYLEIGH ALICE VAN ALLEN: FAMOUS FOR WHAT?
I blinked, the words processing in my brain slowly, soaking into every microscopic detail in my body. At first I was so shocked I was numb, but, slowly, a rabid heat started to engulf my body. I threw the magazine on the ground, childishly stomping on it with both feet. I was famous because I was Kayleigh Alice Van Allen. I was famous because I did boast the title of richest woman in New York. I was famous because top designers groveled at my feet, begging for me to walk in their shows. And they wondered why I was famous?
I kicked the magazine under the shelf where no one could see it, whipping out my oversized, overpriced D&G sunglasses from my purse, accidentally cracking off one of the earpieces in my hand. I trudged out of the store, immediately welcomed by the soft whispering of rain. A pack of paparazzi hovered outside the store, rushing forward with a loud commotion of shouting and flashing of cameras. For once I didn't stop and pose, I simply marched by them, my Pavlina Dadakova dress plastered against my body with rain. For once I didn't bother fishing out my mini umbrella from my purse. I flagged down a taxi, the driver grumbling as I flung myself, wet dress and all, onto his shiny leather seat.
"Eeh, where to, ma'am?" he asked, his thick Brooklyn accent making me cringe. I hated Brooklyn accents.
"Carnegie Hill," I hissed, kicking off my electric blue pumps and fluffing out my hair with my hand. My whole outfit was ruined.
"What address?"I flared my nostrils, my teeth digging into my full bottom lip. "Just take me to Carnegie Hill and I'll walk the rest of the way there."
The taxi driver fell silent, pulling away from the curb and into the busy street. I stared glumly out into the rain, my ashy blue eyes sullen. Most people would say I was having an overreaction, which was probably true, but the people had freaking asked the public why I was famous.
"Here we are, miss. Dat'll be twenty-five bucks."
I threw my whole wallet over the passenger seat, which I knew held around $300 in it, if not more. "Keep the change," I mumbled, leaping out the door, even leaving my shoes on the floor. Oh well. They weren't my favorite pair anyway.
I didn't notice how much I was crying until I gasped in a ragged breath, parking my butt down on the curb and burying my face in my hands. I was about two meters away from my door, but I made no attempt to move. I was barefoot, I lost a third of a thousand dollars in one taxi ride, my dress was ruined, and I had dark makeup streaming down my face.
"Stay right there. That's a really nice angle."
I looked up to see a tall, thin man standing a little ways away from me, holding a large, expensive looking camera up to his eyes. He snapped a photo and smiled, walking toward me. He was wearing a nice, collared shirt, a vest, dark wash jeans and dress shoes, and had a camera… I was guessing he earned a reasonable amount of money for his salary.
"Here, wanna see?" He kneeled beside me, showing me the picture he had taken. I smiled slightly, studying myself. My ruffled dress was glued to my skin, highlighting my curves and angles. My gloved hands cradled my face, my caramel colored curls a mane around my head. It actually looked great, like I was in a photo shoot.
"Kayleigh Van Allen, my name is Mick, and I just took an excellent shot of you."I stood up, wiping my cheeks with my arm. "Would you like to come inside and dry off?" I asked, motioning toward my house. Mick followed me in, and he immediately sat down in one of the chairs, relaxed. I sprinted upstairs and did the change of the season, slipping into a pair of Gucci cigarette pants and a low rise white blouse, combing my hair into a neat pony tail. I walked back downstairs, sitting on the sofa parallel to Mick.
"So, Mick. Are you going to tell me your last name or do I have to guess?" I smirked at him, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear. "And if I do…. Well, something tells me it would be either Goode or Williams… or, maybe even Van Allen…?"
Mick laughed and threw a pillow at me. "Aw, sis. You crack me up." He bent down and rummaged through a backpack at his feet, pulling out the Vogue magazine I had earlier. "Nice cover shot, but you like kinda like a crazy person. Did you know that?"
I snorted and turned the TV on, the news instantly flickering onto the 42" screen.
"New pictures of supermodel slash runway star Kayleigh Van Allen have just been released from an unknown source."A picture of me stomping on the magazine in the store blipped onto the screen, and I cleared my throat, changing the channel immediately.
"Are you four?" Mick asked, snickering slightly as I surfed through the channels, several times seeing the pictures of my temper tantrum flash by.
"What's this?"
I turned toward Mick, who was looking at the newspaper I had put on the coffee table in front of his chair. I leaned over, my eyebrows furrowed. "Umm… that is called the newspaper."
"Really?" Mick turned toward me, eyes wide.
A stack of photos slid out of newspaper, a note attached. I bent over and picked it up, quickly reading its sloppy scrawl.
Dear Kayleigh,
You photograph quite well - especially when you don't know it.
Love,
P.W.