A Diamond in the Rough

by Elisa Marie Hopkins

  “Hello.” I pray that I can keep this as short and sweet as possible.

  There’s a projector screen showing a very PG-rated photograph of me in a gold sequin tux; I’m on the cover of Elle.

  A tiny girl with glasses raises her hand almost instantly. “Is that really you in the picture?” Her eyes light up with joy.

  In the background, a pack of mean, hungry child-wolves giggle at her question. “No, that’s her twin sister, Freckles.” The harassed girl pushes back her glasses, frowning.

  I look at the picture, but I don’t see myself. “I, uh, yes. That’s me.”

  “I like it when I have my picture taken. Can I be a model?” says an Asian girl with thin little arms and legs. Her hair is held back with bows and a string of beaded jewels dangles about her neck.

  All I can say is, “Why?”

  Another girl speaks up. “According to statistics, eating disorders, depression, alcohol, and drug abuse, and even self-esteem issues are all associated with modeling. Is this true?”

  My first thought is, yes, all of the above. My second thought is, how old are these kids again?

  I look at the girl, a pile of books on her desk. “There is some evidence, I guess,” I reply sullenly.

  “Is modeling fun?”

  “How much money do you make as a model?”

  “My mama says modeling is a nasty business to be in.”

  “Do you have to take off all your clothes?”

  “Okay, relax, all right?” I pat a collection of heads. “You, in the blue sweater, what’s your name?” I tower over a dark girl with cornrows and beads in her hair.

  “Holly.”

  She says it boldly, like she knows exactly who she is and where she’s going in life. “Holly, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

  She lifts her eyes, harpooning for a response. “I want to be a veterinarian because I like helping the animals.”

  “What about you?”

  A baby-bird voice chirps from the back row. “A doctor, so I can help the sick people.”

  I point at a blondish boy who is putting up his hand. He stands to give his answer. “I want to be a lawyer because I want to protect the good guys from the bad guys.”

  They all start clapping and the boy gives a small bow as if the reason for my visit is finished and he is the real superstar. These kids have a drive. What on earth do I have? Maybe we all start out as pure idealists, with the fantasy of being the perfect person and working the perfect job, but somewhere down the road we realize we (well, most of us) can’t change the world.

  A kid sneezes without covering his mouth and Jess, standing a few feet away from him, stealthily creeps away. She scurries to her desk and pops what I can only guess is a multivitamin into her mouth. I regularly wonder how it’s possible that she’s an elementary teacher.

  “All right, listen up kids,” I hear myself saying. “I came here today to speak to you about how I’ve reached success in my career and, maybe, encourage you down a similar path. But you know what? Modeling isn’t a career. It has nothing to teach you.” I look at the girl with glasses from before. “You asked if that was me,” I look at the projector screen, “but the truth is, it’s not. That’s not me. That’s who my boss needs me to be. And you want to know another thing? There is nothing great about being a model. There is nothing great about trying to look great just so people you don’t care about can look at you in magazines. There is nothing great about throwing up your breakfast, lunch, and dinner all to squish into a dress. I happen to like food. I like food a lot.”

  “So, why did you become a model?” a girl seated at the front says.

  It really is a simple question, but it requires a difficult answer. I walk over to where she is and keep it short. “Because I was about your age when someone told me I looked like one. If I looked the part, then I should be the part.”

  That’s the problem with appearances, the outer self doesn’t always click with the inner.

  They stare at me, probably wondering why I’m telling them this, what I’m even doing here. They’re so little, so unaware of the bad things that can happen. I wonder about their parents, particularly their mothers. I wonder what kind of life they have. I wonder what kind of life they will have. Will they see that this world becomes a better place for everyone and everything, or will they become cruel dictators?

  I draw a breath and lean back against Jess’s desk.

  “Where am I going with this? I wish someone had told me I was smart, and then convinced me of that. Maybe I’d be standing here today a different woman with a different career. You want my advice? Go run around in the mud, eat dirt, watch cartoons, play with dolls, or whatever it is you kids do these days because one day you will grow up and you won’t be able to do all that other stuff anymore. You’ll keep growing up...but you’ll never be young again. You’ll wonder where the heck your life went, why you didn’t do what you wanted, why you didn’t listen to yourself. Don’t be in such a hurry—adult life is not so hot—if you know who you want to be and where you want to go, don’t let anybody tell you what’s supposed to be right.” I look at the projector screen again. “No matter what you choose, become role models, not supermodels.” I meditate into the distance for a second. “Any questions?”

  Lots of small hands quickly rise in the air. I look over at Jess and she mouths with a smile, “thank you.”

  THREE

  ALL THROUGHOUT THURSDAY morning, as a Brand Ambassador for Wonder Berry—the new yogurt company in town—I’m out and about like a worker bee in a honeycomb, shooting a commercial for their newest products. It involves me prancing down the aisles in the supermarket, filling up my cart with yogurts whilst other women notice my cart and the purple bikini I’m donning. “Wonder Berry—it looks good on you,” I say, then wink in the end after explaining why I normally select the nutritious yogurt as a part of my every day model diet.

  I walk out of the commercial set building and a colony of obsessive reporters swarm toward me on the sidewalk. Cameras flash at me from all angles.

  “Sophie, can we get a word?”

  “How are you dealing with the kidnapping attempt?”

  “Do you fear the kidnapper will strike again?”

  “Is it true you’re in a dispute with E Models over a large sum of money?”

  “Do you think E Models is behind the kidnapping?”

  At hearing the last question, I face the cameras and the reporters with both a look of shock and disgust. “What?”

  Like hyenas at a fresh kill, the press continues on with their relentless shooting. They shout other things, but I block it out as the initial onslaught has my heart in an alarmed flutter. I turn round and round, searching for a speedy exit. I push myself through the mass of ever-vigilant intrusives, then past their cameras and recorders. I finally pop out to see a shiny black car at the curb.

  The back door opens. “Get in,” yells Kim. I obey my master.

  I weigh down on the backseat. “What is wrong with those people? What’s going on? They’re saying the agency is—”

  “Check your phone much? Or maybe the TV? Turn a radio on or something for the love of God. Someone ratted you out.”

  “Ratted me out?” I elevate one eyebrow. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not like they left a name and a phone number.”

  “Well, who else knows besides you?”

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “Jesus. I didn’t think it was going to be a big deal. People get mugged in New York all the time.”

  “You have to clean this mess up, Cavall. Get in front of this. Go over the events yourself. If you don’t tell the media what happened, they’ll make up something far worse than what actually happened.”

  “What do they know? And why are—?” I spot a ruthless-looking character in the rearview mirror, whipping the car around. “I’m sorry. Who is that?”

  “The name is Darren Reed, ma’am. I go by Reed.” His v
oice rumbles. “I am your recently appointed bodyguard and driver.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t need a bodyguard.” I look at Kim for backing. “Tell him I don’t need a bodyguard.”

  “I’m sorry for your inconvenience, ma’am, but you already have one. I’m already paid. You’re my assignment.” He never once smiles. His eyes remain on the road, not an ounce of friendliness in him.

  “So get a new assignment!”

  “Play nice,” Kim says dryly, typing on her phone. “It’s true.”

  “Are you kidding me right now?”

  “Does it look like I’m kidding?” She looks at me, no visible emotion on her face. “The press has been on my ass all morning. They want answers.”

  “Kim, I have credit card bills, apartment bills, utility bills, what makes you think I can afford a bodyguard, and even if I did, why would I need one?”

  “Do I have to remind you that you were almost kidnapped? And I don’t think all those threating messages are being sent to you out of kindness. Besides, all this fuss can’t hurt your career. As a matter of fact, your bookings are off the chain now. I’ve been getting calls from everyone. Finally! We’re going to do some real work around here.”

  I start to feel like some demoralized employee. “What? No. Back up the truck for a second. I’m not going to turn my celebrity victim status into cash.”

  “News flash. You need cash.”

  As I’m muttering swear words under my breath and going through the list of potential suspects in my head that might’ve given me away to the media—my new chauffeur asks me where I’m headed. Before I can come up with an answer, Kim tells him I’m headed toward Black International.

  What is all this? Why do I keep getting blindsided by new things? “You talked to him?” I ask her.

  “What?”

  “Oliver Black. You talked to him? Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “Oh, him? No. I’ve never met the guy.”

  “I’m not following.”

  She gets a call on her phone and holds up a finger to my face, ordering me to be quiet.

  Time after, said Reed person drives into an oasis of quiet, much unlike New York’s usual buzz.

  “We have arrived, Miss Cavall,” he announces.

  “Do me a favor,” I tell him. “Lose the miss thing. It sounds like I’m old, or a princess.” I quiver at the thought.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And the ma’am. I’m twenty-five years old.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  Boss? I’ll think about that. I look out the window. Black International isn’t the standard one-thousand-foot vertical edifice—it’s an awkwardly distorted, white natural-lighted beauty. However, half the buildings in Manhattan speak the same language. This is the heart of the city; it all comes down to beauty galore, minus fifty of the usual floors.

  Kim is still jabbering on the phone as Reed pulls to the curb. Reed opens the door for me, and as Kim notices my indisposition to step out, she tells whoever is on the other line to call later.

  Before she can say anything, I blurt out, “I’m not getting out of this car until you tell me things I need to know. What am I doing here?”

  “He called the agency to arrange a place and time to meet with you. I don’t know what he wants or what he could possibly need of you. I was just told he would help with the press.”

  “The press?”

  “Yes, Cavall, the press. The news is buzzing about your attempted kidnapping. Now, please get out. I have to be dropped off somewhere.”

  ***

  THE PLACE IS surreal, environmentally pictorial. Massive natural foliage flows onto the walls. Sleek and minimalistic; it’s like being in the middle of the woods. Some serious landscaping has been done. I move across shiny wooden floors, then past the transparent glass ceiling and awing office space, letting my stilettos guide me to an exquisite, high-end round desk.

  A slim redhead greets me with an English accent. “Welcome.”

  “Hello. I have an appointment with Mr. Black. My name is—”

  “No. No. Miss, hold on. I’m not ready for your name. A process needs to be followed. I’ll let you know when I’m ready for your name.”

  Some obscure part of me rapidly acts on its emotions. Woman, I will tell you my name whenever I feel like telling you my name! I’m either going to lose myself completely in response to this woman’s discourtesy, or I’m going to bite my tongue and maintain a respectable attitude. I haven’t decided which before she speaks again.

  “Have you announced yourself to Gail, the brunette at the ground floor reception desk?” she asks.

  “I did.” I breathe evenly. “She said I should take the elevator to the tenth floor, which was where I would find you. Emma, I presume?”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Did you present yourself with an identification card?”

  I wave off my visitor’s clearance for her knowledge. “Yes.”

  “Did you sign the company disclaimer?”

  “Yes...that too.” I can’t help but cross my arms, almost preparing for a fight against this stranger.

  “Did you also—?”

  “Emma.”

  Oliver Black’s captivating voice makes my body tremble with anticipation. I notice him approaching the desk and looking untrustworthy in an executive’s midnight blue suit and diagonally red-striped tie.

  “This is Amelia Sophia Cavall. She’s my one o’clock.”

  The way he says it makes me feel like I’m a mere appointment and one of many, surely. He looks at the watch on his wrist, towering over me. His mouth twists into an impish grin. “Or my twelve thirty perhaps. You’re early.”

  “Yes, I know. I was in the neighborhood. By the way, nobody calls me Amelia Sophia.”

  He nods, a soft, acquiescing smile appearing on his face. “I have to take care of a few things. Would you mind waiting in my office?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  Emma rises from her chair and tells me all communication is strictly vetted upon entry.

  Oliver’s face turns hard. He stares at her and commands with a simple look. He doesn’t have to speak; Emma has quaked in her shoes, and the smile he throws at me next—that intriguing smirk that plays up the corners of his lips so easily—makes me quake in mine.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Black. I’m just following protocol.” Her face is a combination of shame and worry.

  Oliver tells me he won’t be long, then takes a walk past me. Emma sees me into his office, which happens to wallow in major square footage with its diagonally leaning glass walls, wall-mounted fireplace, and seating area designed to allow contemplation of the breathtaking view. It’s immaculate.

  “Company disclaimer...” I begin saying as I take a seat on a pretty but uncomfortable sofa, overlooking Chelsea piers. “Visitor clearance...communication vetted upon entry. I see Mr. Black is running a tight ship.”

  Emma just gives me a glare from across the room like I’m an ignorant lowlife, one hand on her hip, and walks out the door. I get up from the sofa as the door shuts behinds her. I have a look around, trying to learn a thing or two about who runs the show here. There isn’t much that gives a tell about his character. It’s nice and neat; not a stray paper in sight. A wide plasma hung on the white, glossy wall is playing the news on mute. There’s a thriving plant above the modern coffee table. It reminds me of Jess. She has similar potted plants all over the kitchen and living room. She recently feng-shuied the apartment, convinced that plants in the house clean the air and in turn, help improve health.

  For a second, I stand there studying every little detail until something on the TV makes my eyes zoom in on it. I stare at the screen in horror. The newscaster’s mouth moves quickly, but no sound comes out. There’s a picture of me on the upper, right corner with a headline underneath it that reads, “Victim or Perpetrator?”

  I rush to use the side of the TV and push all the tiny buttons hoping one will turn up the volume.
>
  “It’s motion controlled,” a gruff voice says all of a sudden. Spooked, I whip my head around and Oliver is sitting on the sofa, his piercing blue eyes catching mine. I didn’t even hear him come in.

  He must’ve turned off the TV. “What are you doing?” My words spit out coldly into the air. “Turn that back on.”

  “You don’t need to see that right now.”

  “Yes I do!”

  His gaze flicks over me—a quick once-over. “Look at us...already bickering over the TV, of all things.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  He gives me a little half-smile. “Please, take a seat,” he gestures toward the sofa in front of him.

  “No, I don’t think so. That’s me on the news. I want to know what they’re saying.”

  “I promise we’ll get to that in a minute,” he says flatly, crossing the room to the bar. It’s on the tip of my tongue to keep complaining, but I resist the urge, swallow it, and let it settle in the pit of my stomach. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” From a cabinet he takes a glass and a crystal decanter shaped like a world globe and fills the glass with liquor. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  I stop myself from making a face. I settle on the sofa that is awful for my back and all sorts of agitating thoughts dominate my mind. “Sure. What do you have?”

  He gives me a look that speaks volumes, like he doubts the seriousness of my question. “Just tell me what you want.”

  “Whatever you’re having is fine.”

  He looks at his drink for a moment, surprised. “This is 40-year-old scotch.”

  “That’s great,” I reply absent-mindedly.

  “Scotch it is.” He hands me a glass with a generous dose of alcohol. I’m careful not to let our fingers touch.

  I brace myself and turn my attention to the glass. I take a gulp from the glass and my Adam’s apple bobs violently, the alcohol scalding my esophagus. Whatever face I make, I’m glad Oliver doesn’t see it as he pours himself another drink and sits down in the silvery, plush sofa opposite me.

  “It’s good.” I set the glass shakily on the coffee table. “Thank you.”