Page 78 of We Used To Be Magic

‘Hi!’ I say, scrambling to my feet. The guy who called my name looks me up and down, then consults the tablet in his hand. I’ve been waiting in this dim little hallway with about thirty other girls for over an hour, so if he sends me away then I might have a full-blown tantrum.

‘Okay. Follow me,’ he says finally, turning on his heel. I fish a comp card out of my tote and scurry after him into an airy white room that I assume is a dance studio. There’s a wall of mirrors behind the long desk where a man and a woman sit, and another woman with a Polaroid camera slung over her hip is leaning against a ballet barre. All three are looking at their phones.

‘Hello.’ I smile, stepping forward and placing my comp card on the desk.

‘Hey,’ the woman says, glancing up. ‘Do you want to walk for us?’

I nod, shrugging off my jacket and dumping it along with my bag. She’s the only one who watches as I traverse the length of the room, posing at the end. She picks up my card, flipping it over.

‘I’m not sure if these measurements are up to date,’ she says, passing it to the man. He looks at it, then at me.

‘I see what you mean,’ he says. ‘The hips …’

‘Right. Will that matter, though?’

‘Depends on the styling. Get Dana to take a Polaroid, anyway.’

‘Dana will take your picture,’ the woman tells me, waving me to the side.

‘Stand against the wall,’ the photographer – Dana, I guess – says. I do as she says, tipping my chin back and willing myself not to blink as the bulb flashes.

‘Thanks,’ the other woman says, my cue to leave.

‘Thank you so much!’ I beam, keeping my head held high as I leave the room. A few of the other girls watch as I make my way back down the hallway, no doubt trying to gauge their own odds from my expression. I’ve done exactly the same thing time and time again, which is why I wait until I’m in the stairwell to let myself deflate.

Shit. I definitely did not book that job, and as a bonus I can look forward to fixating on what may or may not be wrong with my hips for the foreseeable future. I always obsess over the not-so-nice comments made at castings – I was once told that my jawline was ‘a little boxy’ and for weeks afterwards it was all I could see when I looked in the mirror. I hate it. I hate devoting so much mental real estate to worrying whether or not I look pretty, pretty in the right kind of way, prettier than the girls I’m competing with.

It isn’t lost on me that the only editorial I’ve booked in New York so far was likely via an introduction from Julian. Not only does that make me feel completely queasy, Imogene might send me home if I don’t book another soon. I don’t want that – I don’t think so, anyway. Things with Ezra and I – they’re delicate, still, though if I wait until I feel ready to say goodbye to him, I might never leave at all.

I impulsively decide to call him, then, waiting until I’m outside to dial his number. We spent most of the evening together yesterday. It was almost dark by the time we emerged from the movie, slightly dazed and absolutely starving, so we got gyros from a street vendor and ate them on the way back tomy apartment, where he kissed me goodbye on the stoop and ushered me inside before it got too cold. A part of me was hoping he’d suggest we go backhisapartment, but he didn’t. Maybe he was wondering why I didn’t invite him into mine, which I could have, I guess. I definitely considered it. But there’s no beautiful, open-plan space for us to sprawl into. Only my bedroom, and inviting him up to my bedroom felt like … a lot.

‘Hello?’

‘Hey.’ I smile, which is stupid because he obviously can’t see me. ‘How are you?’

‘Good,’ he says after a pause. ‘I’m good. How are you?’

He sounds kind of strange, I realise dimly. A lot of people hate talking on the phone – maybe he’s one of them.

‘I’m okay,’ I say, hesitant. ‘Is this a bad time?’

‘No, no – it’s good, you’re good. Uh – what’s up?’

‘Not much,’ I say, glancing up at the sky. ‘It’s just been kind of a crappy day –’

‘Crappy how?’

‘Um – just a lot of boring casting stuff,’ I say, taken aback by how concerned he suddenly sounds. ‘Nothing serious. I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out. I’m in the neighbourhood, so …’

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Uh – I don’t think I can, right now. I’m sorry.’

‘No worries. Later tonight, or … ?’

‘Tonight … oh, uh – I can’t. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say quickly. ‘It was super impromptu—’

‘You’re close to MoMA.’

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