“I’m no model,” she explained without shame. She was fit and healthy, but a far cry from the willowy women she noticed in fashion magazines. “I’m not a small woman.”
“That’s fine,” said Frances Watson in a warm, cultured voice, like the white ladies used in the soap operas her unci, or grandmother, watched faithfully every afternoon. “I’m not looking for typical models. In fact, we would be delighted to sign some plus-size girls to our roster. What size do you wear, Julianne?”
“Fourteen,” she said, feeling her cheeks grow hot from her lie. “Or sixteen.”
“Perfect,” said Frances Watson distractedly, like she was writing down this information. “Would you be willing to come to Philadelphia next weekend? All expenses paid, of course. We could take some photos, talk about a contract, maybe even—”
Julianne hadn’t waited to hear the rest of the sales pitch. She didn’t need to. Opportunities like this one didn’t land on her scuffed-up doorstep every day and she wasn’t about to let this one pass her by.
“Yes. I’ll come.”
“Uh. Oh. Well, wonderful!” said Frances Watson, her voice surprised and pleased at the same time. “I didn’t expect—I mean, that’s terrific.”
They traded contact information and Frances Watson said her assistant would call Julianne the next day to make the arrangements. That was just over five months ago. Five months in which she’d appeared in the print and on-line catalogues for Land’s End and Soft Surroundings, and gone to a lot of go-sees. She’d booked a few more paying jobs, too, for which she’d been compensated, but plus-sized, taller-than-average Indian girls didn’t appear to be on the top of anyone’s list right now, despite Frances Watson’s continued encouragement. She felt it was just a matter of time until she was a hot commodity—she was unwavering in the opinion that Julianne “had something.”
Yeah, she thought, I have something, all right: bills piling up.
Moving from her home on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in southern South Dakota to Philadelphia had been a culture-shock in every possible way, but the worst of it had been the cost of everything. She wasn’t prepared for her $750 per month rent, or the fact that her groceries, which she considered modest, cost over $200 per month. She had to keep her skin moisturized and hair conditioned, and though Reinhold had paid for her headshots, portfolio and business cards, Julianne needed clothes for her auditions and appointments and those weren’t cheap either.
She’d expected to be on her feet by now—making regular money from frequent jobs—but it hadn’t happened yet, and things felt tighter and tighter every month.
Which was why, when she’d been approached by the man in the black hat earlier this evening, she’d listened to what he had to say regardless of his shady and unexplained appearance at the back of the tasting room where she was throwing out a bag of garbage in the dumpster for Joe.
“Hey,” he’d whispered, catching her attention. “You waitressing here tonight?”
Tamping down her fierce desire to make some quip about how much she just liked wearing waitressing outfits for fun, she’d turned to him and nodded.
“You want to make a quick $500?”
She’d sneered at him, taking a step away, back toward the door to the tasting room. Julianne wasn’t exactly a stranger to smarmy come-ons, but she certainly didn’t entertain them.
“Wait. Wait,” he’d said. “Not like that. Just take some pictures for me. $500 for some pictures.”
At that point, she’d turned around, fixing him with her almost-black eyes before dropping them to the smart phone in his outstretched hand.
“What kind of…pictures?”
“Not of you. Of someone else. Someone attending this wedding.”
“Show me the money,” she’d said suspiciously, looking over her shoulder to be sure the catering manager wasn’t nearby. As much as she didn’t love waitressing, she couldn’t afford to lose these jobs either.
He’d quickly pulled out his wallet and shown her the neat row of $100 bills.
“Pictures of who?” she’d asked.
“There’s a man coming here tonight. Brother of the bride. Man by the name of Christopher Winslow. You heard of him?”
Julianne shrugged. Sure, she’d heard his name on the radio or TV, maybe. He was in politics or running for office or something. He was white and blonde and though he was about the handsomest man she’d ever seen, he also looked posh and superior—like someone who’d barely give an Indian like her the time of day.
“He’s not a good man,” black-hat had continued, sweeping his beady eyes over Julianne’s face. “He’s…he’s, um, he’s racist!”
Julianne had stiffened as though on command, her eyes blazing.
From an early age she’d witnessed the racial struggle between the Indians on her reservation and the white men and women in the border towns. Black-hat had hit a nerve and she took a step closer to him, her blood boiling at the thought of a closet racist being elected to any position of power or authority.