Page 15 of To Hell

I rip the page off and dump the rest of the magazine on a pile of fabrics in the corner.

I have the basic materials, but I must go shopping for more. I need… I need something just like Moore’s statement but also something that screams a new girl is on the block.

Then I need a model. Oh, no, I need a model.

My anxiety creeps in at the near impossibility of that. I have no friends. I always kept everyone away so no one will find out about my father.

I don’t talk much to people in school, not enough to have anyone want to go through the stress of modeling for me. Not to mention, I would need someone discreet and suitable; not just anybody will do.

I grunt and drop flat on my bed, training my eyes on my ceiling.

Is the universe telling me to give up?

He’s perfect.

I use my water flask to mask my face as I check him out. Virgilio. The recluse. He doesn’t talk to anyone but doesn’t need to talk to people like most wannabes to be noticed.

He is a natural.

He is tall enough, his kohl hair knotted behind his head, engrossing bottle-green eyes, lean but athletic, and he has that charisma when he walks. He seems carefree, as if he doesn’t care who is watching, but carries himself with a finesse that shows he is intentional.

The problem here is how to approach him.

The bell goes off to end the PE training, and students, including Virgilio, start to file back into the school building.

I rip my water flask off my face and snap the cover back in place, not comfortable with the way my stomach is flipping over and knitting around my intestines, but positive that I must do what I need to do to get me him.

He will be my model for the contest.

I stalk past the sea of sweaty bodies and the chattering buzz of the worn-out students. I keep stalking until I get to my locker, then open it to get my backpack out while watching him doing something that has his jawline stiff by his locker.

I clutch my backpack to my chest, find relief in a deep breath, and then head over to him.

The way he stiffens tells me he is aware someone is standing beside him.

“Hi,” I wave, freeing one hand from clutching my backpack like a bullet shield.

“I don’t want to talk,” he keeps working in his locker.

“Virgilio,” I take one bold step of pulling the door of his locker a little wider, and he shoots into the action of pulling away and slamming it shut, protecting whatever is in there.

“I said…” he pauses. “You.” He turns to his locker and locks it with the key. “What is it?” He seems less irritated, knowing it’s me, and I hold on to that for courage.

“This will sound funny and crazy, but…” I pfft.

“You sound funny and crazy every other day, Zoe. What do you want?” He interrupts me, shrugging.

At least he knows me by my name. “You…” I stutter, and he lifts his eyebrow in an upside-down V, “I mean, not you, your help…” I scramble for words, his brow rising to touch his hairline. “I need a model to enter a contest, and you would be perfect for it.”

Better. I breathe.

“How much are you paying me?” He pulls out the key from his locker, giving his full attention to me now as he leans his shoulder on the frame of the locker.

Pay him?

I open my mouth to say something, but I’m lost for words and find myself spurting incoherent sounds as I stare at him in shock. I didn’t think he was going to ask me for money.

“How much do you want?” I clear my throat.

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