Points Of View

“C-c-college?!”

She gasped, eyes pinching into agonized slits as she raised an open hand and smacked it violently at her chest. A strangled noise escaped her throat and her features contorted into an unattractive grimace of frustration. Frowning, I flinched back from her bizarre motions as the hand rose again in a forceful clap that shook her ribcage. Cheeks flushing and bangles clanking, she choked out another unintelligible syllable, jabbing a gesture at her back as her other hand slapped frantically at the mahogany table top.

I frowned, leaning back into the faux-leather booth and folding my arms over my chest.

“Mischa,” I said, eyeing her in repulsion. “Mischa, are you alright?”

Wild eyes turned on me and her fist thumped the table, jostling the cutlery resting in our plates. I rolled my eyes, flicking my hair behind my shoulder with a scoff.

“Fine, be like that then.”

I huffed, gaze flitting distantly over the empty diner before coming to rest on the idle busboy loitering by the jukebox. I watched as his index finger traced the coin slot, his other hand rising to ruffle the unruly shock of red hair sprouting from his head as he evaluated his reflection in the protective glass.

There was a loud crash and we both jumped, whipping around to see a tall, leggy brunette stooped over our table, hair dishevelled and face flushing a dangerous puce. I yelped as she stumbled forward, her hand landing gracelessly in my bowl of humus and tabouli. Suddenly, the busboy was at her side, wrenching her out of the booth and wrapping his arms around her middle. I stared in horror as he picked her up and squeezed, crushing her to his torso. Then, all at once, her body gave an impulsive jolt and with one last, strangled yelp, Chicken Caesar salad sprayed the linoleum floor.

“You stupid cow,” Mischa wheezed, eyeing me from beneath her bangs. She snorted, keeling over against the busboy who shuffled awkwardly beneath her weight.

I glared, lips twisting into a scowl, “That was disgusting.”

“I was choking!” she barked, wiping her hands on the table cloth as the waiter helped her back into her seat. She forced a smile, thanking him quietly before taking a hefty gulp of water. I sniffed, watching from over my nose as her flush diminished with every swallow.

I looked away, adjusting my napkin over my lap, “I don’t look that bad when I’m choking, do I?” I looked pointedly at the half-chewed mess spattering the diner floor. “We’re not that identical, right?”

Mischa’s nostrils flared as she slammed down her glass and wiped the moisture from her mouth. I recoiled, thinking she would lunge at me, but instead she closed her eyes and took three, deep breaths, her shoulders releasing more with each inhalation. I sat quietly chewing my lip, watching her nails dig crescent-shaped dimples into her palms as she flexed her hands into fists. Moments later her eyes fluttered open and, clenching her jaw, she raised a slim wrist and signalled for the cheque.

“You can pay,” she spat, tone spiked with venom.

Her gaze switched to the window and I pulled a face at the side of her head but began digging through my clutch anyway. The busboy arrived with our bill in a circular tin tray and I quickly counted the correct amount, eager to leave.

“Leave a tip.” Mischa drummed her acrylic fingernails against the tray. “Ten percent.”

I stared at her, brow cocked and lips askew. My gaze travelled reluctantly to the waiter lingering at an empty table nearby. He was, once again, arranging his ginger mop in the reflection of a silver napkin dispenser, oblivious to the fact that he was being watched. I sighed in pity.

“Oh,” I nodded and reopened my clutch. “Because he’s ginger.” I tutted, retrieving a few notes from my purse, “Poor guy.”

Mischa stared at me, mouth agape. “He saved my life, Megan.” She stood and shuffled out of the booth. “Being a redhead is not the same as being handicapped!” She hissed quietly.

I scrutinized the boy as he came to collect the bill, scrunching my nose at the bright orange flame protruding from his scalp.

“I’d rather be handicapped,” I retorted.

She scoffed, “You’re such a snob.”

Sliding neatly from the bench, I followed Mischa’s brisk stride out of the diner into the muggy Miami heat. It was the middle of July and the heat clouded over us like rising steam. Warm sweat gathered and pooled at the nape of my neck, spilling down the open back of my pink halter sundress. Pushing my sunglasses high up my nose, I scrambled to catch up as Mischa slammed the door to her navy blue 1969 Camaro and started the engine.

My skin was moist and I hissed in pain as it stuck to the burning leather seats. Reaching forward, I turned the air conditioner to full power, opening the vents and letting the air toss my fringe from my eyes.

“So, college,” Mischa started, pulling out of the parking lot and meeting the first traffic light. She drummed her fingers against the wheel, tossing her hair over her shoulder restlessly. “You’re not serious, right?”

“Serious as suffocation,” I said, checking my reflection in the side mirror.

Mischa sent me a glare over her sunglasses that didn’t match the smile tweaking her lips.

“That’s not funny.”

“Well, I am serious,” I laughed lightly, chewing the inside of my lip. “I’ve already applied at two here in Florida and one in Arizona and Mark-”

“Hold up,” Mischa interrupted, poising her hand flat against the steering wheel. “Applications? Megan, you didn’t even finish high school!”

“I know,” I muttered, looking away. My teeth attached themselves to my lip again and I sighed, flipping the sun shade down. “I know, it was a huge mistake but-”

“Mistake?” her laughter was shaded with disbelief. “Megan, we didn’t need to finish high school, we’re models!” She took her eyes off the road to look me over. “You don’t need a degree to look great, babe.”

I sighed again, wringing my hands together in my lap.

“I guess.”

The car crept to a halt as Mischa pulled up to a gas station and rolled her window down, a gust of hot air wrapping around my face. I waited patiently, wiping the perspiration from my brow as she poked her head out and waved one of the mechanics over, a flirtatious smirk plastered to her face. Mischa had never filled up her own tank and she wasn’t about to start on the hottest day of summer.

Thanking the worker and closing her window, she unbuckled her seat belt and turned so she was facing me. “What’s the matter, Meg?” she cooed. Concern pinched her brow as she reached out and stilled my fidgeting hands. “What brought all this college business on, huh?” She said it like it was a dirty word.

I frowned, running my tongue over my teeth.

“It started at that photo shoot in West Palm, I guess,” I said, rapping a strand of ebony hair around my index finger. Mischa watched me carefully, lips parted in concentration. “Remember that stylist, Caroline?”

She nodded, “The big one with dry hair?”

“Yeah, her. Well, she used to be a model too.”

Mischa gasped, hand leaping to shield her heart. “For who!?”

I paused, waiting for her eyes to return to their normal size. She leaned forward, lips pinched and ears straining.

“Victoria’s Secret.”

Mischa chuckled darkly and brushed the hair from her face.

“Rumours!” she dismissed, waving her hand and turning back around in her seat. There was a tap on her window and she rolled it down, slipping some cash through the gap and closing it hastily in a race to beat the heat.

“No, it’s true!” I pressed, buckling my seatbelt as she started the car. “She told me herself. She said all this-” I gestured at my face, my breasts, my hips. “She said all this is just a phase. That in ten years it’ll all be gone and they won’t want me anymore.”

Mischa shook her head furiously, dark locks tangling around her neck. “She’s wrong, Meg.” Her knuckles turned white as her grip tightened around the wheel. “She’s just a jealous has-been.”

I wanted to believe her, but I knew Caroline had no need to be jealous. Though her hair was dry and she carried a few extra pounds, she was still a beautiful woman, a beautiful successful woman with money and gorgeous kids and a husband that loved her. Was it wrong of me to want that too? Modelling was a great career, but I couldn’t shake the nagging insecurity each job presented me with and that was putting me on edge. I really did want to believe my sister, but the quiver in her voice and the churning in my gut told me Caroline wasn’t far off the truth.

“We all reach our expiry dates at some point, Misch,” I murmured, tugging at the hem of my dress. I looked over the console and tried to meet her gaze but her eyes were firmly planted on the road ahead, her jaw determined and her lips set in a tight, straight line. I snatched my eyes away and redirected them to the passing streets.

“This can’t last forever.”