Read Paint Me Beautiful for Free Online Page B

end of the line can see those at the beginning. I'm lost somewhere in the middle, wearing a thin sweater over my tank top because it's chilly out, and I can't seem to stop shivering. My portfolio is tucked under my arm and loaded onto my phone, just in case they want digital. I'm scrolling through the pictures and examining them for flaws. My arms look flabby in this one, and oh God, look at my thighs in that suit. There should be a gap there; I won't get hired if there isn't a gap there.
    I look up and examine the people around me. There are women, men, and even kids. I'm guessing there were multiple ads targeted to different demographics. It happens. It also means I'm going to be here five times longer than I want to be. I'm in a horrible place – smack dab between a bakery and a pizza parlor with a Chinese takeout two doors down and a street cart selling hot dogs not five feet away. The horrible smells waft in the air and trigger my weaknesses, making my mouth water and my tummy grumble. I didn't eat this morning even though I wanted to, even though the plate of food my mother left on the counter covered in foil enticed me. Last night, I took it up to my room intending to throw it out and ended up keeping it just so I could stare at the mountain of mashed potatoes, the pieces of greasy chicken, the buttery biscuits. I stared at that and then I stared at myself in the mirror and I imagined where each and every calorie would fall, how it would hang from my bones and jiggle. This morning, I tossed it in the trash can in my bathroom. If my parents haven't stooped to going through my things then nobody has to know. I can just say that I ate it and save myself the fight.
    I close my eyes and whisper a simple mantra to myself. Skinny is beautiful. Skinny is pretty. Skinny is perfect. The cravings fade away to a dull throb, and I smile, proud of myself for remaining strong. After all, what it all comes down to is this: a slice of pizza or a cover shoot; a container of orange chicken or a print ad; a doughnut or a commercial. Failure or success. Not a hard choice to make.
    The line moves forward, and I shuffle along with it, perfectly aware that the girl three people ahead of me is a double zero. Bitch. Why did she have to be in front of me? Now my chubby cheeks and flabby arms are going to be twice as obvious. I sigh and wonder if it's worth it for me to stay, to even go to another casting call until my weight is under control. I touch my hair, my cheek, my lips. I know I can muse all I want about staying away, but I won't stop. Even if I had to walk clear across the city, I'd go to these damn things. It's an addiction, really, and maybe a bit unhealthy, but I have a goal in my mind, and I won't stop until I reach it. I glance up at the billboard above my head and imagine what it would be like to grace it, to see myself stretched out across the sky clad in a bra and panties whose yardage is measured in decimal points … and I shudder. I shudder because I want it so bad , but I couldn't handle it. Not yet. Not when I look like this.
    I use my phone to search the Internet for exercises I can do while standing. I might look stupid doing it, but I really need to utilize my time wisely. Big Bob was so pissed at me this morning that he wouldn't even look at me when I came downstairs. I'm afraid that I'm going to unintentionally cause him to do something rash like kick me out. I can hear his imaginary words now. Claire, there's a time in every young adult's life that they have to take that first step and find their own way. I shiver. It really is time to step up my game. I take a swig of water from my new stainless steel bottle. It has a girl on the side, a swirly figure made of colored shapes, but she's nice and skinny. When I look at her, I feel like I'm being reminded of my goal, and I like that.
    I decide on calf raises since I can do those fairly inconspicuously and start to tuck my phone away when I get a text message from