“When do we go?” Baptiste asked.
“I’m leaving for New York tonight. You can show up tomorrow.”
“I can leave with you—”
“No.” I needed alone time with Zola first. “Get some rest. Show up tomorrow.”
“Okay, but make sure you get a seat that isn’t thirteen.”
“Okay.” I rolled my eyes. “No to seat number thirteen. I’ll try to remember.”
We hung up, and every moment after that went fast-paced as I bought the ticket, drove to the airport, and rushed onto the earliest flight.
As I sat in my first-class seat, I went over the stalker’s letters again. Brokenhearted didn’t have a lot to say. He didn’t waste words. Pages after pages, the same black letters. Sometimes it was scribbled in pencil. Other times ink. Once, he’d typed it over and over.
MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE.
Turning off my phone, I pulled the locket out and slipped my thumb along the heart.
Zola is yours? I don’t think so, motherfucker.
2
The Dark Side of Beauty
Zola
Half-naked, I sat on a massive zebra. The sun bore down, almost melting my brown skin. The Zebra’s name was Ziggy.
I’m sure this is some form of animal cruelty.
Earlier, Ziggy hadn’t appreciated me on top of him. I understood. I didn’t really want to get on top of him either, especially wearing only a zebra-printed bikini. The silver tipped stiletto heels didn’t help with keeping balance. It took two people to get me on him without stabbing his sides.
And he snapped at me a few times. Fortunately, his trainer shoveled a large pile of herbs, grass, and twigs in front of him. It was then that zebra gave up with knocking me off.
He’d been eating and shitting for the past hour.
“Zola, look this way.” The photographer snapped his fingers in his direction. I pretended not to smell the stench of zebra poop and curved my lips in a seductive smile. “There we go.”
The camera flashed in my face. My eyes watered from the blue contacts.
We’re almost done. We’re almost done.
I’d been on set for nine hours. This shoot was supposed to be Livid magazine’s top spread. The concept was expensively dressed women on a safari.
I smiled at the camera, showing how confident and beautiful I must’ve felt in the zebra patterned bikini. Even though the swim set was a thousand dollars, it was a few scraps of cheap material that itched against my skin. Hopefully, no one would rush out to buy it.
“Yes, Zola, yes.”
I turned my head slightly, giving the photographer what he wanted.
“There we go.”
I tilted my head at just the right angle for this type of lighting.
“Just a few more.”
Translation. Give me one more hour.
No complaints. I was paid well—too well at times for what I did, but I was grateful, nonetheless. I’d started at $100 per hour. It added up to $1,500 per day for catalogues. Later, my portfolio became stronger. I hit advertising, earning $10,000 per day.
Unfortunately, I was mentally off on this shoot and having a crisis of character—not sure if I was wasting my life away at modeling. I was tired of this stalker. Tired of New York. Tired of the competitive edge of the industry. And definitely tired of being tired. Guilt and fear spun around my body like I was trapped in the eye of a hurricane. Maybe if I wasn’t a model, I wouldn’t have triggered a weirdo to stalk me. And wasn’t it my fault anyway? I was always naked on magazine covers.
What did I think would happen? No. No. I can’t think that way. This isn’t my fault.
My mind said no, but my gut screamed yes. I’d been having trouble sleeping, which didn’t help my mental state. Each new stalker incident gave me panic attacks—shaking, biting my nails, and close to vomiting. Sleepless nights and darkened days.
The whole photo shoot, I’d sat on the zebra rethinking my life choices and wondering about the cruelty of beauty and the many that it had harmed.
Should I stop modeling? I saved enough money. I could go back to school.
It was times like this when I yearned for someone to talk to about this, someone to hold, someone to go home to. Someone to comfort me. Someone to soothe the ache and fuck the stress away with.
The camera flashed bright in my face.
I remained in my pose, breathing in and out, not letting my mind go astray. If it went too far and really took in the set, things would go wrong.
Am I really happy being here?
This whole set was an illusion along with everything in it—makeup artists gossiping, fellow models judging, and publicists boasting.
Boy, I’m in a great mood.
Beauty had become my weapon as well as a curse.
I was good-looking, but everybody in this world was good-looking as long as they weren’t big murderous assholes. Beauty could be found on any face, in every tint of skin, in the rise of any chest, and the song of anyone’s laughter. Still, beauty had been a deceptive means to my financial independence, even though I knew I was no prettier than any other. I let them place my face above titles and on magazine covers, knowing that little girls would aspire to be me, even though they were already better and just fine.