Hourglass
Schoolgirls and Red Roses
The minute the door closes, Noelle is gliding around the apartment, examining every box, every shelf, every nail in the hardwood floor. Her wide eyes have a dazed quality, as if she can’t quite remember where she is. I cough, loudly, into my forearm. Noelle turns and looks at me, my hacking breaking her trance. I inhale more smoke, slowly, soothingly. It tickles my throat as it seeps into my lungs. “Natasha Steel,” she whispers, more to herself than me, cocking her head. “Natalie Ellen McClean, technically speaking,” I say, smoke lingering in the air with the words. Noelle’s brow furrows, confused. “Madame…”
“You can call me Nat, I guess.”
“Nat-te,” she repeats, adding an extra syllable. Her small, accented voice makes me want smile. I suppress the urge, puckering my lips instead. “Nat-te,” she says again, carefully forming each letter, “do all models smoke cigarettes?” I let out a choppy stream of smoke, my lips a perfect “O.” I consider this: “Well, a lot do… most I guess.” Noelle shrugs, her furry jacket slipping off her shoulders. “I want to be a model someday. Like you. Like Natasha Steel.” I roll my eyes. She looks so ridiculously sincere standing there in her puffy boots and fuzzy pink pullover. Her watery eyes look up at me as if I were some exotic deity, expecting to be worshipped. As if.
She continues to peruse the boxes on the floor, picking up books, tapes, shoes, examining them, dusting them off, and placing them back into their boxes. I stay in the hallway, shaking my head. This is definitely the last thing I need right now.
My mind wanders back to satin evening gowns, red roses, flashing cameras…
“Madame– Nat-te. What is this book here?” She is holding a thick, green hardback in her pudgy hands. Grey’s Anatomy the gold letters read. “I dunno,” I say, shrugging. Noelle places it on the floor by the nearest box, her fingers brushing over the cover. She turns to me again, inquisition in her little eyes. God, not more questions, I sigh, sinking down onto the white couch the movers brought in earlier today day. “Nat-te, is it that you have always wanted to be a model since you was a little girl like me?” She twists her thin hair in her fingers, waiting for a response.
My mind wanders, back to the little schoolgirl in her plastic chair, her eyes sharp, her hand raised. I can just barely see her, with her little plaid skirt and Mary Janes. I know I wanted to be something back then. Every little girl wants to be something when she grows up. Then it hits me, a slap across the face: I can’t remember my childhood dream. I just wish I could reach into the head of that little schoolgirl and find all the answers there.
Instead I answer for myself. “Yes,” I tell the little girl before me, “I always wanted to be a model. Always.”
“I thought that was so.” Noelle smiles and nods, verified. My eyes dart downwards, ashamed of the lies pouring out of me. It’s just too easy. But, I tell myself, You never wanted to be a model, never wanted to be a star. Not until he came. I can’t take much more of this.
“Kid– Noelle, you better get home. You’re mom will be worried.”
“D’accord. Bye Nat-te. Thank you.” She shuffles out the door.
I am left sitting there, ugly, defeated, nothing, sinking, slowly. And suddenly, I am young again.
I had long been accustomed to the constant click and flash of a camera, the steady voice of the photographer, the long fingers of the director positioning my chin just so. Today I could feel the fan teasing my hair, the mascara hardening on my lashes. I was beautiful. “Parfait!” the photographer exclaimed, handing the camera to his assistant, “nous sommes fini.” Giggling, I waltzed out of the studio and down to the Paris street, my feet barely touching the stairs.
He, Andrew Moore, world-renowned agent and president of Moore Model Management was waiting for me outside. As I ducked into the black car, I could feel the starched corner of his lapel grazing my shoulder, could catch a whiff of his piney cologne, could feel his breath on my cheek. He sat there, in the car, the very epitome of perfection, of security. In his hands he held a red rose. He spoke my name, smiling, his lips curling, his consonants crisp. “Natasha.”
I sigh, sinking lower into the couch. My hand wanders to my pocket. I light another cigarette. My hollow cough echoes throughout the apartment.
“You can call me Nat, I guess.”
“Nat-te,” she repeats, adding an extra syllable. Her small, accented voice makes me want smile. I suppress the urge, puckering my lips instead. “Nat-te,” she says again, carefully forming each letter, “do all models smoke cigarettes?” I let out a choppy stream of smoke, my lips a perfect “O.” I consider this: “Well, a lot do… most I guess.” Noelle shrugs, her furry jacket slipping off her shoulders. “I want to be a model someday. Like you. Like Natasha Steel.” I roll my eyes. She looks so ridiculously sincere standing there in her puffy boots and fuzzy pink pullover. Her watery eyes look up at me as if I were some exotic deity, expecting to be worshipped. As if.
She continues to peruse the boxes on the floor, picking up books, tapes, shoes, examining them, dusting them off, and placing them back into their boxes. I stay in the hallway, shaking my head. This is definitely the last thing I need right now.
My mind wanders back to satin evening gowns, red roses, flashing cameras…
“Madame– Nat-te. What is this book here?” She is holding a thick, green hardback in her pudgy hands. Grey’s Anatomy the gold letters read. “I dunno,” I say, shrugging. Noelle places it on the floor by the nearest box, her fingers brushing over the cover. She turns to me again, inquisition in her little eyes. God, not more questions, I sigh, sinking down onto the white couch the movers brought in earlier today day. “Nat-te, is it that you have always wanted to be a model since you was a little girl like me?” She twists her thin hair in her fingers, waiting for a response.
My mind wanders, back to the little schoolgirl in her plastic chair, her eyes sharp, her hand raised. I can just barely see her, with her little plaid skirt and Mary Janes. I know I wanted to be something back then. Every little girl wants to be something when she grows up. Then it hits me, a slap across the face: I can’t remember my childhood dream. I just wish I could reach into the head of that little schoolgirl and find all the answers there.
Instead I answer for myself. “Yes,” I tell the little girl before me, “I always wanted to be a model. Always.”
“I thought that was so.” Noelle smiles and nods, verified. My eyes dart downwards, ashamed of the lies pouring out of me. It’s just too easy. But, I tell myself, You never wanted to be a model, never wanted to be a star. Not until he came. I can’t take much more of this.
“Kid– Noelle, you better get home. You’re mom will be worried.”
“D’accord. Bye Nat-te. Thank you.” She shuffles out the door.
I am left sitting there, ugly, defeated, nothing, sinking, slowly. And suddenly, I am young again.
I had long been accustomed to the constant click and flash of a camera, the steady voice of the photographer, the long fingers of the director positioning my chin just so. Today I could feel the fan teasing my hair, the mascara hardening on my lashes. I was beautiful. “Parfait!” the photographer exclaimed, handing the camera to his assistant, “nous sommes fini.” Giggling, I waltzed out of the studio and down to the Paris street, my feet barely touching the stairs.
He, Andrew Moore, world-renowned agent and president of Moore Model Management was waiting for me outside. As I ducked into the black car, I could feel the starched corner of his lapel grazing my shoulder, could catch a whiff of his piney cologne, could feel his breath on my cheek. He sat there, in the car, the very epitome of perfection, of security. In his hands he held a red rose. He spoke my name, smiling, his lips curling, his consonants crisp. “Natasha.”
I sigh, sinking lower into the couch. My hand wanders to my pocket. I light another cigarette. My hollow cough echoes throughout the apartment.