Page 1 of Hard to Fake

1

BROOKE

Fake it till you make it. Isn’t that what they say?

Because if we’re not beautiful enough, smart enough, kind enough, capable enough, faceless people will judge us.

We try to be better.

It’s easier to pretend.

"More beautiful. More natural. Just… more, dammit.” The photographermoves across the wooden planks, his narrowed eyes focused on the camera screen.

I push up the sleeves of my cashmere sweater and follow him.

"This isn't working," Giovanni mutters.A white man with a narrow face, it’s impossible to tell if he’s forty or sixty.

“What about like this?” One of the models, Aliya, tilts her head an inch in a pose that’s virtually identical to her last one.

We're shooting at the Denver Botanic Gardens. The lily pond is set with stones like gems studding the cold water. In October, many of the blooms have finished for the season, but the green vegetation pops even more against the gray sky.

The models pose at the water’s edge, the photographer catching reflections as they sway like flowers in the fall breeze.

Beautiful people in beautiful places doing beautiful things.

“No.” Giovanni exhales. “It’s the lighting.” He gestures to the sun as if he can manipulate it with his hand alone.

We’ve been trying to make progress for hours, with nothing but dissatisfaction from the photographer. This shoot is for a national magazine, and he’s going to be in trouble if he can’t produce a killer result.

My eyes latch onto the male model at the front of the group—Chad, or Brad, or Thad. It’s been so long since the intros we did this morning, I honestly can’t remember.

He’s pretty. Harmless.

Boring.

This shoot is going to waste time and money and fall flat if it doesn’t have a hook.

The thought sparks something in my brain.

“Movement,” I say under my breath.

“What?” Aliya demands. A high-fashion model whose star is on the rise, she has the impatience of someone who’s always been told exactly how beautiful she is and thinks she can coast on her razor-sharp cheekbones and flawless skin.

“This place is too peaceful,” I say. “Move bigger.”

I pass my light reflector to another assistant and adjust my shoes. Then I step out in front of the camera onto the first of the rocks.

“Hey! Get back from…” Giovanni trails off.

I tune him out and go farther.

One of my gloves slips out of my pocket, hitting the water's surface. I bend to retrieve it, wobbling as I stick it in my pocket.

I swoop one hand up in the air at a bold angle.Then straddle two stones.

I can’t paint the perfect picture, but I trust my body, my movement.

The photographer watches.

---