Eddie
“Name?”
“Eddie Wells.” I stop myself from adding “sir” to the end—a habit that’s been beaten into me since learning to talk. Regular guys don’t bother with those formalities.
The guy in front of me holds out a hand, and before I can react and shake it, I realize I’m supposed to hand him something.
I don’t have one of those book things yet. All I have is a color printout of a few Polaroids that I just took at the modeling agency. The girl who I explained this to is all the way across the room, holding the clipboard with my size card.
Six people are now staring at me. My palms dampen, but I avoid wiping them on my jeans. I could tell him that I’m not sure how this is all supposed to happen, stumble over my words and look like a desperate idiot, but I doubt that’ll win me any jobs.
I lift an eyebrow. “So…are we taking some pictures? I haven’t done this before, but my agent said we were taking pictures.”
He stares hard at me, raising an eyebrow to match mine. Everyone else is still, watching. Finally, the girl with the clipboard jumps into action. She and the guy who seems to be in charge lean their heads together, looking over my size card and whispering loud enough for me to catch most of it.
I hear the girl mention Shay Silver, the agent whose office I left less than thirty minutes ago. Last week, right outside a store in Soho, I had just put in an application to work there, and Shay had stopped me and promised ten times the income doing this modeling thing. I hadn’t believed her, but after looking into it, skepticism turned to hope. And my decision was made—leaving home, defying my parents, lying to nearly everyone, and pretty much giving up my friends, social life, and well…my life as I know it. Knew it. All to stand in front of these people while they whisper about me.
“Eddie Wells,” the guy in charge says. “Good call shortening your name. The real thing is a bit of a mouthful.”
I roll my eyes. “No kidding.”
Laughter fills the room, and I have to work hard not to do the deer-in-headlights thing. Or tug at my shirt collar. Shay Silver had spent a good forty-five minutes going on about the types of jobs I could book, the clients who would like my look, whatever the hell that might be. I understood exactly two things from that conversation—directions to the casting and her advice to appear confident.
“You don’t have to know what you’re doing to look like you belong, Eddie.”
I’ve never felt more out of place in my entire life, but the goal is only to look like I belong.
Within seconds, the guy in charge is directing me to stand in a line while a photographer takes pictures. I do what I’m told, keeping my face and shoulders relaxed like I don’t care if they like me or not. It’s an attitude I’ve never really tried out before, and I’m surprised how freeing it is. To be someone else.
“What do you like to do for fun, Eddie?” the photographer asks me.
Fun. I think I remember that word. Barely. But what does Eddie Wells like to do for fun? “Whatever I can get away with—parties, concerts, skydiving. I’ll try anything once.”
“The hair is great,” someone says, not even bothering to whisper.
My hair is dark, curly, out of control, and always too long for my mother’s approval. She has my father’s personal assistant send me monthly haircut reminders, most of which I ignore.
“Really goes with the image.”
There they go with that image talk again.
“Eighteen—legal and on the loose,” another guy says.
This time, I refrain from rolling my eyes. I’m probably supposed to agree with that one.
The talking about me while I’m standing right here goes on for a few minutes until the girl with the clipboard leads me out of the room and back into the lobby.
There’s a guy who Shay introduced me to at the agency waiting in the chairs. Dima. He’s older than me by a few years. Either Russian or Hungarian. He grins when he sees me. “How’d it go, man? You survive?”
The girl is still around, so I shrug and say, “Who knows?”
“I hear ya,” he says. “You looking for something fun to do tonight? I’m having a party. We could use a few more pretty faces, if you know what I mean.”
Just the word party turns my stomach. But Eddie Wells likes parties. “Uh, yeah, maybe I’ll stop by.”
He gives me the address along with a fist bump, and then it’s his turn to be subjected to the people inside the room.
“Eddie? Got a question for you,” the girl behind the desk says. “You didn’t list an address on your form.”
“Right. The agency is still trying to hook me up with a place, so…yeah.”
This could be a problem. I glance at the door Dima disappeared behind, and then I turn and give the girl his address. Who says I’m not good under pressure?
She quickly jots it down without question. “So, Eddie Wells… Are you available tomorrow?”
I try not to smile and instead shrug. “Don’t know. You’ll have to check with my agent.”
On the inside, I let out the biggest sigh of relief.