The day of the shoot arrived, and Meg felt like a bundle of nerves wrapped in an oversized denim jacket. She stood outside the trendy studio, staring at the graffiti-covered walls that screamed "edgy" and "hip." Models with perfect posture and impeccable jawlines walked past her, barely sparing her a glance.
"Okay, Meg," she muttered to herself, clutching her phone. "You can do this. Just act like you belong here. Fake it till you make it, right?"
The receptionist, a glamorous woman who looked like she moonlighted as a Bond villain, waved her in with a disinterested flick of her manicured hand.
"Right this way," the receptionist drawled. "Wardrobe is in the back. Don't touch anything."
Meg followed the directions and entered the chaos of the set. Stylists buzzed around like caffeinated bees, models lounged on vintage couches pretending to be effortlessly cool, and a makeup artist was furiously yelling at an intern about the importance of contouring.
"Meg Griffin?" a sharp voice called out.
Meg spun around to see a petite woman in a leather jumpsuit and sky-high boots. Her clipboard was practically a weapon.
"Yes, that's me!" Meg said, her voice cracking slightly.
"I'm Tatiana, the creative director," the woman said, looking her up and down. "Hmm. You're the quirky one, right? Fresh Threads wanted someone 'relatable.' Let's hope you can deliver."
"Uh, yeah, relatable," Meg said, feeling increasingly unsure. "That's me."
Tatiana snapped her fingers, and two stylists whisked Meg away. Within minutes, she was in a pair of baggy jeans, an oversized sweater, and sneakers that looked like they belonged to someone cooler than her.
"Perfect," Tatiana said, inspecting her. "Now, just be yourself. But, like, more photogenic. And less awkward."
Meg wasn't sure how to do that, but before she could ask for clarification, she was shoved onto the set.
The shoot started smoothly enough—at least, until Meg tripped over a stray cord and nearly took out a lighting rig.
"Oops!" she said, scrambling to her feet.
Kyle, the photographer from her test shoot, laughed. "Don't worry, Meg. That's gold! Just roll with it. You're the 'clumsy-cool' type. It's perfect."
"Clumsy-cool?" Meg muttered under her breath. "Is that even a thing?"
Apparently, it was, because Kyle spent the next hour capturing shots of her looking "awkwardly charming." At one point, they handed her a fake latte and told her to act like she'd spilled it.
By the end of the shoot, Meg was exhausted but oddly proud. She had survived—and maybe even thrived. Tatiana gave her a curt nod on her way out.
"Not bad, Griffin," she said. "You might just have a future in this business."
As Meg left the studio, she couldn't help but smile. For the first time in her life, her awkwardness wasn't a liability—it was her brand.