Picture Perfect

by Thomas, Alessandra

  She gave a slight smile as she passed the woman in the sweater, who gave her a quick rub on the back. “See you later, Anna.”

  “All right, Patty, I’m going to lunch,” the woman called as she started to walk to the main door of the office.

  “Doctor Albright, would you just take a quick look at the board?”

  “I—” But then the doctor looked up at Shelly, and a serious look and a nod passed between them. “Sure,” she smiled. Her eyes scanned the paper for a few seconds, and then she looked up. “Which one of you is Catherine?”

  I swallowed and half raised my hand before I realized how stupid that probably looked. “Uh, me. I’m Cat.”

  “Do you have a few minutes to come in and talk to me?”

  The woman’s—doctor’s—smile was kind and genuine. So I smiled too. “Yeah.”

  The couch was shabby and saggy, and creaked a little when I sat down on it. “Sorry about that,” I mumbled.

  She laughed. “No, it’s fine. Does that every time.”

  I laughed, too. “I just thought it was because I was fat.” I laughed a couple short, breathy laughs, trying to inspire her agreement. Whether I wanted her to agree with me or with my joke, I didn’t know.

  Instead, she just tilted her head to the side a little and gave me a courtesy smile. “Why would you think that was funny?”

  “I don’t know. It’s easier than feeling bad about it.”

  “Is your weight what’s making you feel down? That’s what you said on the paperwork, right, that you’ve been feeling depressed?”

  “Yeah, but I have no idea what the problem really is, you know? I mean, I don’t like being fat—”

  “You’re not fat, Cat. You know that. Right?”

  “Well, I mean, I guess I’m the size of the average American woman, but I used to be—”

  “We’re not talking about what you used to be. We’re talking about what you are.”

  “Okay. Well, no. It’s not about that. It’s just...everything has changed.” I told her about the whole ten months since my accident—my poor snapped leg bone, the surgeries, the physical therapy, how none of my clothes fit, how I couldn't even spend that long on a cardio machine, let alone go running, any more. How everyone saw me differently since I’d changed so much.

  “Has anything else changed about you? Besides your weight?”

  I shook my head. “I’m in the same sorority, same major. Same friends. I don’t know. It’s hard for me to go out.”

  “Why?”

  “It hurts to walk, and I guess I have nothing to wear.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “I mean, I do have stuff to wear,” I said, “but I don’t like any of it. You know.”

  She smiled and sat back. “Sort of. I don’t think I introduced myself. I’m Doctor Albright, and I specialize in body dysmorphic disorders along with working here in the counseling center.”

  My whole body stiffened. “No. Hold on. I...when I modeled, it was healthy. I ate enough, I worked out. I wasn’t a crazy person, or dysmorphic, or anorexic, or anything like that, I swear to you.”

  She nodded, putting her eyebrows up. “Oh, I know. I can tell that you are naturally very tall and have a smallish frame, and that you probably stayed very thin without too much effort. And I’m not saying you have a disorder now. But I am saying that if you don’t take care of your issues with your body image, they will continue to be a plague on your life forever.”

  I sat back, stunned. This doctor was telling me that if I didn’t deal with my issues now, not a day would go by when I didn’t want to cry at the feel of my jeans tightening around my thighs when I sat, or stress over eating half a cookie.

  “I’m speaking to you directly, Cat, because I can tell you’re a relatively healthy girl who just had a very, very tough year. And I want to work with you to figure out how to cope, no matter your body shape, so that you have these skills in place for when things change later.”

  “My body’s going to change again?”

  “Your body will change your whole life. Rather, it could. Illness, pregnancy, stress, all can affect how much you eat and can exercise. I’m a counselor, so while I care about your body being healthy, what I care about most right now is your mind being healthy about your body.”

  Her assessment hit me like a ton of bricks.

  “My whole identity was wrapped up in being a model. In people thinking I’m beautiful. I loved that feeling. I don’t know how to get it back.”

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Um...eating well. Or eating badly. Or sometimes not eating at all.”

  She gave me a gentle smile. “Okay. Emotional eating, we can deal with. Later. But now, I want to tackle the idea that your value as a person is wrapped up in your body. It’s not your body you want to get back, though. It’s how you felt when you were in that body.”

  I raised my eyebrow at her.

  “Think about how it felt to be on the runway, or in front of a camera. What was that like?”

  I let my eyes flutter closed, trying to remember it. The flash of the camera, the excitement of someone telling me the way I popped my hip or looked at them through my eyelashes was “stunning” or “perfect” or “gorgeous.” I took a deep breath and told her. “The feeling that no one else in the world could look the same as I did right then, could make those clothes look as beautiful as I did. My body was the canvas, and the clothing was the art. My entire being was art.”

  She just sat there, watching me.

  An intense unease twisted my gut. “I understand what you’re saying. I really do. And I believe it, logically. But when my entire job, and a lot of who I was, was based on how good I looked in clothes, it’s kind of hard to not judge myself like that. You know?”

  “I know. Which is why I’m here to push you. To help you.” She tapped her pen on her chin. “How strong would you say you are, Cat?”

  “Well, I just publicly chewed out the douche canoe who was using me for serial one-night stands. At a bar. In front of all my friends.”

  A grin spread across her face. “Okay. Do you think you can trust me, Cat?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “First, I want to tell you a story.” She stood up and lifted her shirt. Her whole abdomen hung like a wrinkled curtain of skin, striped with shimmery white stretch marks. The area around her belly button sagged like it had a hood covering it.

  “Kids?” I asked her, though I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her belly. I’d thought mine was bad. This was like a train wreck.

  She pulled her shirt back down, sat down in the chair, and smiled. “Nope. See how short I am? How petite my shoulders are?”

  I nodded.

  “I used to be a ballet dancer. I was quite a star, actually.”

  “What happened?”

  “My mom and dad both died in a car crash.”

  I gasped. “Whoa. I’m so sorry. That’s horrible.”

  She nodded. “It was. I was fourteen. And I didn’t have any siblings to lean on. It was really just my aunt and me, and she was devastated too. And I didn’t know what else to do, so I just ate. A lot.

  “I almost doubled in weight, and by the time I lost it all, I was in college. I’d been a fat high schooler, never been kissed, and was just trying to figure out how to be normal.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I did what I loved again, but I did it in a way that was going to help me. I went back to dance class.”

  “So you want me to model again?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, I can’t. My Philly agent can’t find any spots for me.”

  It was a lie. Maureen, my modeling agent had a bunch of plus-sized jobs for me—she said they were in high demand, actually—but I knew that if I walked back into that office and was surrounded by all those pictures of girls I used to work with, who were still long and lanky and beautiful, and I was reporting for a job for fat-girl clothes, I would totally lose my shit.


  I thought Dr. Albright would drop it. Instead, she said, “That’s not exactly what I meant. You told me you were strong, and I believe you. I have a friend who's a professor at Drexel who could really use your help.”

  “What class?”

  “Drawing. She needs models.”

  “So I just go and sit in the middle of the room and people draw me? Okay. So you’re going for the whole ‘art’ thing. Cool.”

  “Well, it’s not ‘just’ posing though. It’s posing nude.”

  My eyes flew open wide and panic seized my chest. “Oh, no. You don’t understand. I’m not a nude model. My belly has rolls and my boobs sag. I have cellulite.”

  “So do most people. And for artists...the curvier the better.” She waved her hand. “I’m not sure exactly why—something about fundamental beauty and curve and shadow and balance—but I’m sure they’ll tell you.”

  I just sat there, trying to wait for the waves in my stomach to calm down and take deep breaths.

  “No kidding?” I said carefully. “You really think this will help me feel less depressed?”

  “No, I think the low-dose antidepressant I’m giving you will help you feel less depressed. I think that modeling again will help you feel more powerful, which will keep you from getting as depressed later. Most importantly, it will give you some of the coping skills to deal if some asshole calls you fat in a bar. So what do you think?”

  All the excuses obliterated themselves in my head. It was at Drexel, and I was a Temple University student, so I most likely wouldn’t see anyone I knew too well. I could put on weird makeup and leave through the back door. If I didn’t like it, I didn’t have to go back. I could even leave halfway through. It was a free country.

  And the promise of feeling that power again was too delicious not to try it. Especially coming from this person who knew what I felt like, at least a little.

  I swallowed, then nodded. “Okay.”

  Doctor Albright nodded and started scribbling on her prescription pad. “One for the happy pills,” she winked, “and one with Professor Astor’s phone number and e-mail. Oh! And one more to come see me again in a month, or sooner if you need.”

  I stood up and took the small square papers. “Thank you. Really.”

  She walked me to the door and held it open for me. “Remember, Cat. Try to find enough bravery to make yourself feel powerful. Can you do that?”

  I took a deep breath, and my stomach quivered as I made the promise. “I can certainly try.”

  Chapter 5

  Professor Astor’s drawing class took place in a regular classroom in a regular building on Drexel University’s campus. The building seemed to hold mostly art classes, and I passed rooms full of spinning wheels and easels, the students roamed the hallways with charcoal-smudged hands and paint-spattered shirts.

  I had been thinking that somehow the moment I walked into the building everyone would know why I was there. “There’s the model,” they’d think. “There’s the girl who needs to pose nude so she can get her shit together.”

  The only recognition I got was friendly faces. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

  I found the classroom easily enough, and saw through the doorway there was just one person in there—a woman with frizzled, half-gray hair exploding from a floppy cloth hat in a way that somehow looked completely natural on her. She wore a gauzy tunic over flowing pants, and long strands of beads that clinked together as she busied herself with some portfolios on her desk. She was muttering to herself, and I had to clear my throat just to get her attention.

  “You have the wrong classroom, darling, this is human form class.”

  “Oh, no.” I said. “I’m it.”

  “You are...?”

  “I am the human form. And I’m pretty nervous.”

  “Oh!” The woman threw her head back and laughed. “You must be Catherine.”

  “Cat,” I said, nodding.

  “Yes, you are beautiful,” she said, tilting her chin up to peer into my face. “And a gorgeous height. They’ll love this.”

  Over my shoulder, someone said, “Whoa, we’re drawing a supermodel today, huh?”

  For a split second I wondered who the hell he was talking about, until I realized he meant me.

  A split second later, when I saw his face, I wanted the dull tile floor to split and swallow me whole.

  I recognized him. And I wished I hadn’t. It was Hannah’s hot friend from the bar the night Jake snubbed me. Meaning, he was going to be drawing the nude model. Which was me.

  His name popped into my head as my face flushed. Nate. The hottest guy I’d ever met. And he was going to see me and my fat rolls naked in about five minutes.

  Holy. Shit. Holyshit.

  He was one of the tallest guys I’d ever seen. I was guessing he was six foot three—almost a head taller than me. The hard angle of his jaw trailed down to a strong chin, and it was all dotted in a day’s worth of dark stubble. I drank in his dark, sparkling eyes. That tousled mess of dark chestnut hair that made him look like he’d just gotten out of bed. The round neck of his t-shirt dipped just low enough to give me a peek at his shoulder muscles and the tops of his pecs when he bent down to set his bag on the ground.

  Then he rolled up his sleeves. Even his damn forearms twitched with muscle and tendon. His hands were wide and strong with long fingers, and smudged with charcoal, and in the space of three seconds I had a brief fantasy about a trail of charcoal outlining the path of his hands across my skin.

  Whoa.

  “Yes, this is Cat, and she’ll be our model today.”

  Nausea roiled my stomach.

  “Are you all right, dear? There’s a little room through that door,” she gestured to a door behind her, “where you can change into your robe. You did bring a robe?”

  “I...uh...” I just had my wristlet wallet, car keys, and cell phone.

  “It’s your first time? Really?” The guy had such a look of surprise on his face.

  “Well, I used to model, but then I got in an accident, and had some surgery, and…it’s just been a long time. I look a lot different than I used to.” The words came out breathlessly, like I wasn’t even sure I wanted to say them until they were already out. I couldn’t believe I’d said anything. It was his damn friendly face that made me want to tell him my life story.

  “Let’s remember our guidelines, Mr. West? Don’t ask the models questions?”

  The guy flushed red and shuffled some papers around on his desk. “I’m sorry, Professor Astor. You’re right.”

  “Thank you. Now, get your materials ready, hmm?”

  Professor Astor gently put a hand on my back and led me to the door. “You, Cat, can call me Julia. You can go ahead and get dressed back there, and I’ll come knock when we’re ready for you.”

  My head spun. I’d known I was going to have to undress in front of other students my age. But the last thing that had occurred to me was a guy this hot would be part of that group. I gritted my teeth. Nate being here should not change anything. I wouldn’t let his being here change anything. He was just a guy, and I was just a model. I was here to feel beautiful, to feel powerful. I was not going to worry about what one guy thought about me naked.

  He was just one guy.

  One completely gorgeous guy.

  The changing room was actually a storeroom, with spare metal shelves full of containers of paint, boxes of oil pastels, rolls of paper, and dozens of other art supplies. In the middle of the room, in the four feet or so between the shelves, was a small area rug covering the concrete and a small nightstand where I could put my things.

  I took my time tugging my leggings, boots, and socks off, then did the old trick from junior high where you take your bra off under your shirt. I couldn’t deal with standing there alone with my naked self for the next five or ten or God-knew-how-many minutes while Professor Astor—Julia—addressed the class.

  Even so, standing around without a bra was uncomfortable. It never had been
before—I hadn’t ever been small, but I’d also never needed specially designed industrial bras to keep the girls high and in place. Now, with the extra sixty pounds and my boobs going from a full C to a DD-cup, I probably could have put a pencil under each one without it dropping.

  Ridiculous.

  I crossed my arms over my ribs, half to support the girls and half to ward off the chill in the air.

  At least there was a small window on this door, I moved the curtain to the side and peered at the students taking their seats. I counted five girls, one petite, three average, and one pretty curvy girl. One hipster-looking guy with a long beard and weird hat who seemed very bored, and Gorgeous Guy.

  Nate.

  I watched as all seven students took out their supplies and arranged them on the desk in front of them. Professor Astor stood at the front of the classroom, telling the students something, even though her words were muffled by the thick door. My stomach twisted and churned. “Nervous” didn’t even begin to describe what I was feeling.

  When she finally came to get me I followed her into the classroom, the industrial-tiled floor a shock on my bare feet. In the middle of the room was a platform, about the height of a doctor’s exam table, draped with a heavy white blanket. At the end of it was a solid black step stool, and with Professor Astor’s gentle nudging, I stepped onto it.

  From this angle, the platform didn’t look so solid at all. “Are you sure this will hold me?” I whispered over my shoulder. A low chuckle came from the other side of the classroom.

  Oh My God. Gorgeous Guy was laughing at me.

  “Yes dear, it’ll hold you. Just go ahead and sit. Would you like help posing?”

  I shimmied out of my underwear, and watched from the corner of my eye as Gorgeous Guy fiddled with his pens and adjusted himself in his seat. Weird.

  I turned away from the arc of students to pull my shirt off over my head. I’d done a lot of strange stuff when I modeled, but this was absolutely insane. Seven people the same age as me staring at my naked ass. For art class.