Page 43 of For The Record

“Can I ask you a favour?” she says suddenly.

“Anything,” I say. Maybe too easily. The last time I agreed to one of her favours, I was running around the city looking for a fresh bouquet of wildflowers in December.

“This isn’t a big favour,” Poppy says. “Ipromise.”

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It’s actually a huge favour.

But, one week later, I find myself standing in the offices ofLa Mode,being shimmied into an ultra-tight hot pink dress that squeezes my body like a sausage casing. And I mean all of that in the worst way possible.

“I know, I know, I know you hate the dress,” Poppy says, walking into the dressing room and somehow speaking with three pins sticking out of the corner of her mouth, a roll of measuring tape resting in her hands. “But you agreed already. No going back.”

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I say as Poppy walks over to a different girl, standing on another pedestal in the room. The dressing room atLa Mode,the magazine where Poppy works, has a view overlooking Sunset. Flashing lights and whizzing cars go by, adding to the already frenetic energy of the workplace. Girls bustle in and out with scraps of fabric, garments, and in various states of undress. I have seen more accidental nudity here than I did when I visited an actual nudist resort. “The only reason I’m doing this is for charity.”

“It’s for a good cause,” Poppy says as she measures the inseam of a gangly redhead, before rifling through a rack of gowns to pull out a bright green cocktail dress. “I didn’t know the other model was going to back out of this! And Skye, it’s only for one night.”

I carefully step off of the pedestal in bare feet, staring at the uber-high heels sitting next to my beat-up ballet flats. “You know, I’ve never understood this whole ‘auctioning off dates’ thing. Isn’t it just akin to prostitution?”

Poppy sticks a pin through the bright green fabric next to the redhead’s armpit. “Stay still, or I’ll poke you. Skye, if you really want to think of it as prostitution, just rememberPretty Woman.”

“I’m not Julia Roberts and I’m pretty sure Richard Gere won’t be in attendance,” I say as I gingerly step into the stilettos with a wince. I’m going to need to practise walking in these before the gala starts tonight, or else I’ll be leaving this place in a stretcher. At leastLa Modeis only a few blocks from the Hilton, where the gala is taking place. “So that movie reference doesn’t work.”

“But you know who will be in attendance?” Poppy says cheerily, whistling some old show tune. “The higher-ups at Volume Records.”

“Poppy, that makes it even worse,” I say, taking ten painful steps in the stilettos toward a pink tufted couch. I plop down on the velvety surface and pick up the latest copy ofLa Mode. Dating advice, a roundup of the season’s hottest trends, and the best - and cheapest! - face serums. “I don’t want to get auctioned off to some creepy old guy who’s already on his third wife and spends the whole night leering at me.”

“I meant it would be a networking opportunity,” she says. “Not a… MeToo moment.”

I smile. “I appreciate it, but I think I might need to put on more clothes for it to be a networking opportunity or for anyone to take me seriously.”

She sighs dramatically. “Such is the world we live in.” A clock on the wall ticks to six o’clock and the room’s flurry of activity suddenly becomes even more frenzied. I hop up off the couch, discard the magazine, and get ready to break a leg… and that’s not metaphorically.

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@PoppyBlack1996: Getting ready for the party with @LaModeMag #raidingtheworkcloset

@Ttang: lucky

@SkyeHolland1: oh, so this is where you get your clothes from?

@PoppyBlack1996 ;)

Chapter 21: Leo Perez

It’s been three days, and Skye still isn’t speaking to me.

At work, she goes out of her way to avoid me. When the elevator doors opened and she saw me, alone, she literally turned around and took the stairs. All my calls, texts, and even Snapchats have gone unanswered and unopened.

I know that we had… well, afraughtconversation at work. But, to be fair, I think, she sabotaged her own professional reputation by working with her ex. On paper, it looks awful to enter a workspace and immediately see nothing but problems spring up for Ryder, with whom she has a less-than-friendly relationship.

When I consult my college friend, Eddie, all he has to tell me is, “You need to make some grand gesture. Girls eat that crap up.”

A grand gesture. Right. What am I supposed to do, serenade her with flowers and a singing telegram? Somehow, I don’t think Skye Holland is the singing telegram type. Just a hunch.

Though on the other hand, my grand gesture to Raina was pretty successful, which is why she’s talking to me now. Only after I showed up last Saturday with ice cream, a brand new pair of Doc Martens, and VIP, front-row tickets to Ryder’s concert, did she even consider forgiving me.

When I reluctantly confessed to Raina why I was alone on a Saturday night, she actually sounds sad. “Man, I thought she was the take home to Mom type.”

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