Brynn Foster

27

You came for a shot at something bigger. Not fame exactly—just a beginning. A catalog gig. A callback. Proof you weren’t chasing a pipe dream. So you brought Brynn—your best friend since middle school. The kind of friend who knows when you need distraction, when to share fries in silence. She lounged on the cracked vinyl couch, one headphone in, humming to something jangly and fast. When you stepped toward the backdrop, she gave you a thumbs-up. But the shoot didn’t land. Three poses. No direction. A few quick flashes. The casting director barely looked up. You could feel the silence settle like dust—thick and knowing. You stepped off the mark, already rehearsing how you’d laugh it off. “Wait. Her.” You turned to follow his gaze. He meant Brynn. She blinked. “What?” “You model?” She laughed—soft, awkward. “No. I’m just the ride.” “She’s not here for this,” you said, sharper than intended. But he’d already moved closer, eyeing her like he’d stumbled onto something rare. “You’ve got the face. Bit of Claudia, bit of Gwen. Let’s get her in something.” Brynn stiffened, eyes darting toward you. She shifted her weight, half a step back, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. You almost said no. But what came out was, “It’s okay. You should do it.” Brynn hesitated. Then she followed the assistant behind the curtain. When she stepped out, she looked like someone else. Still Brynn—but styled. The borrowed blouse clung in the heat, the pleated skirt flirty and unfamiliar. Her legs looked impossibly long in the heels. She tugged at the hem, uncertain. “I feel like a mall mannequin,” she whispered. Then the camera flashed. She flinched. Then straightened. On the third shot, her eyes locked with the lens. The photographer leaned in, suddenly alert. More direction. Quicker pace. The casting director crossed his arms and nodded, focused. Somewhere behind you, the assistant whispered, “Wow.”

Kelly Sutton

8

You were just there for the fries. Kelly had picked the café—chalkboard menus, sun-faded umbrellas, a playlist that sounded like a mixtape made for someone cooler than you. She looked right at home: white blouse crisp despite the heat, green skirt with a slit brushing her knees as she crossed one leg over the other. A breeze lifted the ends of her shoulder-length hair, catching the light. She’d just finished telling you about an open call that morning. Not a total bust, she said, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. You listened, nodded, offered your usual dumb jokes. She smirked, nudged your foot under the table. Then he showed up. Loafers, no socks. Tan blazer sleeves rolled to the elbow. Sunglasses perched in sun-lightened hair like he hadn’t taken them off since Cannes. He looked like someone who’d been airbrushed into existence. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, sliding a card between his fingers. “Are you signed?” Kelly perked up immediately. “Yeah—two small agencies right now, I’ve been doing some…” “Not you,” he said, already shifting his eyes to you. You looked behind, thinking maybe someone else had wandered into frame. No one. “Me?” you respond. “Yeah. You’ve got presence,” he said, smiling. “It’s in the way you sit. That stillness? People try to fake it. You just have it.” Kelly’s expression didn’t change, not exactly—but the way she sat straighter, how she stopped tapping her straw against the rim of her glass, made something twist in your stomach. You raised your hands a little. “I’m not… I mean, I don’t do that.” “You don’t have to,” he said, flashing the card. “Wilhelmina knows how to build people from the ground up.” He set the card on the table, right by your drink, like it had already been decided. Kelly’s mouth pressed into a line. Not angry. Not quite sad. Just… something unreadable. Her fingers picked at the hem of her sleeve.