Chapter 3
Pulling back cascades of silky, firey tresses, Mallory Pike fixed an elastic around her ponytail and took a swig of bottled water. With a sigh, her eyes, fringed with heavy, mascara-darkened lashes, took in the familiarity of the bustle around her. Photographers tinkered with the cameras, heavily made-up women sifted through racks and racks of miscellanous clothing, and Iris stood in the midst of it all, calling out orders.
"Mallory!" she cried, and instantly Mallory set down her bottle and glanced over at the raven-haired manager. Iris smiled. "Great work, I'll see you tomorrow at eight?"
A nod and a fake smile painted Mallory's lips, revealing rows of perfect white (thanks to those hideous braces she was stuck with in her teens.) As she gathered her various belongings--a notebook, cosmetic case, brush and mirror--and hastily shoved them into her carryon, she caught a glimpse of her face in one of the many mirrors that lined the studio. Then her smile transformed into a geniune one. In her mid twenties, she had blossomed into a beautiful young woman--finally, she thought to herself. Her geeky glasses were gone and replaced with royal blue contacts, her freckles now thought of as an asset rather than a setback, and her mop of impossible curls now silky and managable. That added with the curves that came with age made Mallory gorgeous--and she wasn't the only one that noticed.
Her mind wandered back to that fateful day when she was 18. Fresh out of high school, she was worried about her future--her family, supporting her 8 brothers and sisters (Claire, Margo, Nicky, Byron, Adam, Jordan, Vanessa, and baby Caryn) was in no shape to help her through college. While flipping through Seventeen magazine, which lay admist her notebooks of writing one lazy afternoon, Mallory found a modeling ad that offered scholarships and immediately drove down to the office to apply. And the rest is history, she thought with a trace of bitterness, gazing around once more. A few years here, and still no scholarship. . .but at least it's steady pay. And what would I do if I wasn't here? I can't go to college and keep this job.
Mallory slung the bag over her shoulder and headed to the door, but she heard a voice calling her. She turned to see a breathless Meisha running to catch up with her.
"Mal! Want to go out for coffee later?" the young, curly-haired girl asked, then bit her lip. "Well, maybe not coffee, that would ruin my diet. . .how about an all-natural strawberry and banana smoothie? A small one. . ."
Mallory tried her best to look sympathetic. "Gee, Meisha, I'd love to, but I've got plans." A date with 8 crazy siblings and, hopefully, a pint of good ol' Ben and Jerry's, she thought with an inward smile.
A bright, understanding smile drew itself across Meisha's face. "That's okay! Maybe next time."
With a parting smile, Mallory stepped out of the office door onto the streets of Stamford. A sigh escaped her rosen lips as she thought about how lonely she was. . .she couldn't remember what a real friend was like. All of the models at this agency were. . .fake, she thought with sadness. As if to punctuate her torment, the notebook slid out of her carryon and fell onto the sidewalk. Mallory's restless eyes wandered over a page of her own fiction writing, now forced to be kept secret, before snatching it up. How she missed to write. . .but her pitying thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of her cell. "Hello?" she asked.
"Hi honey, I'm just calling to relay a message," Mrs. Pike's voice came through the receiver.
Mallory flagged down a taxi--her rundown, rusting hunk of metal she lovingly called a car was at the repair shop, yet again. "What is it?"
"An old friend of yours," Mrs. Pike said, her smile audible over the phone. "Abby. . ."
Mallory froze as a yellow cab pulled up in front of her. "Abby?" she repeated.
"Yes, Abby Stevenson. She went on to say. . ." Mrs. Pike relayed the message as the cab pulled away from the curb.
A few minutes into the ride, Mallory hung up the cell and quickly dialed another number. "Iris?" she asked after a few moments. "I may not be in tomorrow at eight. . ."
Pulling back cascades of silky, firey tresses, Mallory Pike fixed an elastic around her ponytail and took a swig of bottled water. With a sigh, her eyes, fringed with heavy, mascara-darkened lashes, took in the familiarity of the bustle around her. Photographers tinkered with the cameras, heavily made-up women sifted through racks and racks of miscellanous clothing, and Iris stood in the midst of it all, calling out orders.
"Mallory!" she cried, and instantly Mallory set down her bottle and glanced over at the raven-haired manager. Iris smiled. "Great work, I'll see you tomorrow at eight?"
A nod and a fake smile painted Mallory's lips, revealing rows of perfect white (thanks to those hideous braces she was stuck with in her teens.) As she gathered her various belongings--a notebook, cosmetic case, brush and mirror--and hastily shoved them into her carryon, she caught a glimpse of her face in one of the many mirrors that lined the studio. Then her smile transformed into a geniune one. In her mid twenties, she had blossomed into a beautiful young woman--finally, she thought to herself. Her geeky glasses were gone and replaced with royal blue contacts, her freckles now thought of as an asset rather than a setback, and her mop of impossible curls now silky and managable. That added with the curves that came with age made Mallory gorgeous--and she wasn't the only one that noticed.
Her mind wandered back to that fateful day when she was 18. Fresh out of high school, she was worried about her future--her family, supporting her 8 brothers and sisters (Claire, Margo, Nicky, Byron, Adam, Jordan, Vanessa, and baby Caryn) was in no shape to help her through college. While flipping through Seventeen magazine, which lay admist her notebooks of writing one lazy afternoon, Mallory found a modeling ad that offered scholarships and immediately drove down to the office to apply. And the rest is history, she thought with a trace of bitterness, gazing around once more. A few years here, and still no scholarship. . .but at least it's steady pay. And what would I do if I wasn't here? I can't go to college and keep this job.
Mallory slung the bag over her shoulder and headed to the door, but she heard a voice calling her. She turned to see a breathless Meisha running to catch up with her.
"Mal! Want to go out for coffee later?" the young, curly-haired girl asked, then bit her lip. "Well, maybe not coffee, that would ruin my diet. . .how about an all-natural strawberry and banana smoothie? A small one. . ."
Mallory tried her best to look sympathetic. "Gee, Meisha, I'd love to, but I've got plans." A date with 8 crazy siblings and, hopefully, a pint of good ol' Ben and Jerry's, she thought with an inward smile.
A bright, understanding smile drew itself across Meisha's face. "That's okay! Maybe next time."
With a parting smile, Mallory stepped out of the office door onto the streets of Stamford. A sigh escaped her rosen lips as she thought about how lonely she was. . .she couldn't remember what a real friend was like. All of the models at this agency were. . .fake, she thought with sadness. As if to punctuate her torment, the notebook slid out of her carryon and fell onto the sidewalk. Mallory's restless eyes wandered over a page of her own fiction writing, now forced to be kept secret, before snatching it up. How she missed to write. . .but her pitying thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of her cell. "Hello?" she asked.
"Hi honey, I'm just calling to relay a message," Mrs. Pike's voice came through the receiver.
Mallory flagged down a taxi--her rundown, rusting hunk of metal she lovingly called a car was at the repair shop, yet again. "What is it?"
"An old friend of yours," Mrs. Pike said, her smile audible over the phone. "Abby. . ."
Mallory froze as a yellow cab pulled up in front of her. "Abby?" she repeated.
"Yes, Abby Stevenson. She went on to say. . ." Mrs. Pike relayed the message as the cab pulled away from the curb.
A few minutes into the ride, Mallory hung up the cell and quickly dialed another number. "Iris?" she asked after a few moments. "I may not be in tomorrow at eight. . ."