Chapter 4: Model Girl

The fight between Arlo and Hunter bothers me so much. I skip out on Hunter's band auditions. It's easy to blame my absence on a hangover. However, I did drink a little last night. Hunter won't know how much.

Why did I have to be such a bitch to Arlo? Why do I care so much anyway? School starts tomorrow. I'd better focus on that—my phone rings.

"Emma, I saw the video of Hunter fighting last night. What happened? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, Freddie. And don't ask me to go to the Aftershock auditions today. I am not feeling well."

Freddie, of all people, understands teen parties. He practically encourages me to attend them for fame, followers, and friends. The three 'Fs' I am supposed to care about. Freddie never thinks about the fourth 'F' for fuck. As in, I don't give a fuck today, Freddie.

"Okay, I will let Model Perfect know you aren't feeling well. What are we sick with today?"

"I'm hungover okay? I want a day off."

Freddie sighs into my phone to signal his disappointment in me.

"I understand, Emma. Take the day. But you'd better be fresh for the first day of school today. Davis high school is waiting for its Queen B to be at her best."

Can I barf yet? I don't want to be Queen B tomorrow. I don't want to be anyone's top model. I just wish it was college already. One more year to pretend I care. One more year to be on top of the food chain. Then I will start over as a freshman at some college. I don't even know if I want to go to college right away. I've considered taking a gap year to explore the world.

I sleep the rest of the day off. I wake up, and it's already time for school. The last time I slept that much, I was coming down with something like a cold or worse. I take my vitamin C supplements and hope for the best. Look like Aftershock picked Jeremiah Winters for their new lead guitarist. That's good news for Rosa, then. By the end of this weekend, she will be more popular than me. And that's the last thing I need as Model Perfect's chosen one. I just need to make this one last year with them to pay for my college fund or my gap year fund, whichever comes first.

The first day of senior here has arrived—another year of high school and another popular year. Sometimes I like being popular. It means I always have friends and always have a conversation in the halls. But sometimes it's lonely. My discussions are intense; I'd call them shallow. But that's how people see me, the shallow girl, the model girl. If only people could see me a little deeper, know me a little better.

The hallways filled with new freshmen faces. The younger siblings of my friends. Ninth-grade boys are attempting to grab the butts of the hot chicks. The emos are wearing black clothes and quoting Edgar Allen Poe. The football team with its jocks. Hunter's on the team. He used to be the quarterback. But his band commitments got in the way of that title. So now Jeremiah Winters is the quarterback, and Rosa Higgins will be a prom queen competitor of mine. I've thought about skipping prom this year. Last year Hunter almost got arrested for spiking the punch bowl.

Then there are the computer geeks who are the IT unit of the school. They make apps and have future businessmen written in their future. Finally, the theatre dorks are some of my favorites. They recite songs and know the lines of all the old and newer movies. I secretly quote with them in my head.

"Hey, Emma, I'm sorry you missed Aftershock's auditions yesterday."

Hunter says while grabbing me and spinning me around. Is it wrong that I feel nothing for him? He smiles, and I feel a little flutter. But not the same one that was there freshmen year. We've been dating for three years. I lost my virginity last year to Hunter. It took some convincing on his part and courage on mine. Maybe that's what I need, a passionate love-making weekend with Hunter to rekindle me.

"No, it's cool. I felt like literal shit all day yesterday. I was the sleep it off girl yesterday. Freddie called me it was not pretty."

Hunter takes my hand, and we walk to class. The first class is an English class. Oh goodie, my worst subject. I love reading books. It's the papers I suck at. While everyone else can form sentences, I get stuck writing run-on sentences. On and on, my sentences dance around each other. I can't win.

My seat is cold, and the wood is chipped. The names of graduated students are written all over the top of the desk. I smell the dry erase markers. It reminds me of gasoline. Finally, the bell rings, and the class falls silent.

"Good morning class, I am your new English teacher. My name is Mr. Douglass."

Mr. Douglass writes his name on the board. He straightens out his glasses and puffs out his chest. Mr. Douglass is a middle-aged African American gentleman. He looks like he knows my whole life story. I bet he does if he reads the news or goes on social media. Perhaps he has investigated all of us.

"We are going to start this year off with an assignment. Our English class will have an ongoing assignment with students from Mr. Finky's photography class. So everyone on your feet, we are going on a little field trip to the photography class."

We all get up and form a line. Squeaky sneakers are heard in the hallway. The photography class is in the basement, and we are on the second floor. Hunter isn't in my class. None of my close friends are. Just my shallow admirers and acquaintances. Marianne Porter is the only person I really know in this class. Well, know outside of school.

When we get to the photography class, we stand in the back of the room. Mr. Douglass and Mr. Finky exchange a few words and then tell us about the collaboration project.

"Good morning, everyone. Every Monday and Wednesday morning, we will gather here in the photography room and work on this assignment. You will get assigned one partner for the entire year. You have to work together for your grade this year. Since we don't want anyone feeling left out, we have already assigned partners."

I look around the room at the photography students. No one looks familiar. For a popular girl, I really am lost.

Mr. Finky and Mr. Douglass start calling off names for a few minutes. Then I hear my name.

"Emma Rhodes, your partner will be Arlo Finch."

Arlo Finch? I didn't even see him when I scanned the classroom before. Arlo turns around, and his baby browns rolling around in his skull at me.

"Mr. Finky, I can't work with a model girl," Arlo protests.

"You should consider yourself lucky for this assignment. Finally, you of all students in here have a professional model as your partner. That should thrill you as a budding photographer with a promising career," Mr. Finky says.

I sit down next to Arlo, and he turns his back away from me. Everyone else pairs off, and Arlo still ignores me.

"Now to get to the best part, revealing your assignment. For this assignment, you will need to meet outside of the classroom. First, photographers will take pictures of your models all over town and develop the photos in the darkroom. Then the English class will report on where they went, who they meet to take photos with. After the photos develop, you may feel free to write a few short stories for extra credit along the way. Any questions?" Mr. Douglass asks.

I don't bother raising my hand. I am now a student model for Arlo to do whatever he wants with.

"Emma, come here," Mr. Douglass says.

"Yes, coming. What is it?"

"Will you sign this waiver allowing us to photograph you? We have to clear this assignment with Model Perfect. And since you are eighteen now, we need to get your signature and not your guardian's."

I sign the waiver and head back to my desk. The rest of the class is me trying to get Arlo's attention.

"Arlo, I'm sorry, alright. I've been stressed out lately. I got bad news on Friday, and it ruined my weekend. So I'm sorry for letting it out on you the other night."

Arlo turns around. His left cheek dimple brightens the room somehow. I blush a little. Am I attracted to this guy? No way.

"I forgive you, model girl. I have to if I want a good grade in this class. But no more parties. I only want to focus on this assignment. I'm sorry about your bad news. You seemed kind of down at the beach when we met. I won't share your secrets if you need someone to vent to that, I promise you. Even models need to vent, right?"

The way he talks like an open book strikes everything in me, like a guitarist plucking the strings before a show. The chords have been struck, and my emotions are awry. My eyes turn red thinking about my news, the truth that I might have thyroid cancer at eighteen. Arlo pulls out his camera and takes my picture.

"Why did you take my photo? I look terrible. I'd ask you to delete it, but it needs to get developed."

"No, you look real. You show real emotions, and you might thank me later, depending on how this project goes. I meant what I said, model girl, you can vent to me anytime you want. You clearly have something bothering you."

I whip the tears away and fix my make-up.

"Thanks, Arlo. I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me. And please don't call me model girl, my name is..."

"Emma, your name is Emma. I know." He says while grabbing my hand under the table. My face blushes instantly, and I squeeze his hand back. The bell rings, and no one else knows what's going on. Arlo whispers something in my ear after the last student leaves.

"You're cute when you blush."

My face gets redder, and my heart flutters get bigger. Arlo's dimple gets wider. Finally, I let go of his hand, and my reaction tells me the truth that I am attracted to Arlo Finch.

Somehow I need to do a project with the gorgeous boy with the left dimple on his cheek and pretend to be the perfect girlfriend at the same time. This is a rough start to my senior year, and my Model Perfect career depends on me staying with Hunter Bates. Boys like Arlo Finch are not in the cards for me, no matter how hot he is.