Moore To Love

by Faith Andrews

  “Leni!” she squeals, her voice so high pitched I fear for the well-being of every dog within a five-mile radius of the hotel. “This is beyond amazing. This is epic. This is history in the making!”

  “I know!” I squeak just as obnoxiously, because let’s face it—this is pretty freaking clutch. “I don’t have time to call Mom, Ashley and Lane. You think you can handle the ladies so I can share the big news with him?”

  “Of course I can! Look at you all have my people call your people and shit. I can see it now. This is just another stepping stone in the direction of greatness!”

  “Don’t do that!” I scold. “Don’t get me all hopeful. This is a one time, beginners luck kind of thing, Tatum. I’m still trying to wrap my head around what’s so special about me. It’s a lot to grasp.”

  “Oh! Shut it! Grasp this.” I picture her flipping me the bird. “Own it, Leni! Own every last second of that shoot and prowl that catwalk like your life depends on it. I know confidence has never been your forte, but if someone as inspiring as Siobhan Colbert sees something in you, it’s time to realize what I’ve been telling you for as long as I’ve known you.”

  “And what’s that?” No, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just need the extra push from someone who knows every little detail down to my molecular make-up.

  “Beauty comes in many shapes, sizes, and colors, Len. You are beautiful. You’re modeling, for Pete’s sake! If you need a label, this is it, babe! Every doubt you’ve ever had about yourself, every asshole who rejected you because they couldn’t see past a few extra pounds, every girl who made you feel less than perfect because you weren’t a size two—this is a big fuck you to all of them! It’s a day of reckoning, goddamn it!”

  Well, when she puts it that way. “Don’t wake me up,” I say on a sigh, and allow the joy of this moment to surge through me in a rush of victory. “I never want this feeling to end.”

  “It doesn’t have to. Roll with it. The more you embrace your sexy, bad self, the easier it’ll be for you to accept that this new you is really just the old you with a little extra umph.”

  Is she right? I mean, she has a point. I haven’t exactly morphed into a supermodel overnight. It’s not like I’ve lost a ton of weight or done much to change the way I look on the outside. The transformation, if any, has mostly been internal. A true learning experience. And this new gig is just the icing on the cake. Mmmm, cake. Just one tiny peace of chocolate blackout to reward myself. What? Old habits die hard.

  After a promise to recount every detail of my day once it’s done, I hang up with Tatum and set out to call Lane. Time is ticking away and as each second passes, my nerves unravel even more. Saying you’ll do something is so much easier than actually following through. I may have sworn to Tatum—and myself—that I’ll rock that runway like Heidi Klum but part of me is shitting a brick thinking my runway debut will be a lot more like Carrie Bradshaw’s.

  “Hello?” Lane answers right away, his voice stirring even more excitement.

  “You sitting down?” A bit dramatic, but if Lane and I are going to be an item, he needs to get used to the whole package. Sarcasm and drama are par for the course. Poor guy.

  “Actually, no, but—is everything okay?”

  “Lane! It’s more than okay!” I go on to tell him about everything and his enthusiasm vibrates through the phone, making me wish he were here to experience it with me. I’ve never had a guy to travel alongside the ups in my life. I’ve had plenty who were the cause of the downs or who had a part in kicking me while I was there hoping and praying for days like these, but this—this is something I’ve always wanted. Did I miss a genie escape from his magical lamp somewhere?

  “I told you so! I knew you had this in you.” I remember how he assumed I was a model when I told him about the fashion shoot a few days ago. Maybe it was his conviction that oozed out into the universe and caused karma to repay me in kind? Who the hell knows? Either way, I’ll take it!

  Suddenly the weight of it all consumes me. Happiness. Companionship. Success. I can’t bear to mask my true feelings any longer. We’re barely even dating, but I’ve come to like Lane—a lot—in this short amount of time. Above all else, he’s been a friend during a really weird time in my life and I want him to know what I’m thinking. It can’t hurt. “I’m so nervous, Lane. I really wish you were here,” I blurt it out with zero remorse.

  “I wish I were, too. I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d pay serious dough to see you doing something like this, but work is—work—and I just can’t get away right now.” There’s no denying he’s genuine. Still sucks, though.

  “I know and I’m sorry for laying any guilt on you. I have Raven, thank God, but a familiar face in the audience would’ve made it a little less terrifying.”

  “Don’t you dare be scared, Leni. You have a fire in you that burns so brightly it makes me want to be around you all the time. I love that about you and you need to love it about you, too.”

  Has everyone gotten into my Joel Osteen books? What’s with all the motivational pep-talks? Am I that much of a sad sack?

  Never mind. There’s no reason to dwell on why everyone’s being so amazing. I’d rather relish in the fact I have so many supportive people in my life. “Thank you, Lane. That means more than you can know.”

  We spend a few more minutes on the phone, laughing and joking. It totally cools my jets and makes me a little less nervous about what’s ahead. Lane encourages me to put my best foot forward and to enjoy myself during what could very well be a once in a lifetime experience. I hang up feeling truly blessed. My friends—new and old—have had my back all this time.

  “Leni!” Raven rushes over to me, heels clicking, with tears in her eyes. “You look fucking gorgeous!”

  My legs are wobbly trunks of panic; I’m not sure I’ll be able to prompt them to move when the time comes. Her tears incite more nerves and I lose it in the safety of her arms.

  “This is crazy! I need more time! I don’t think I can do this!”

  Raven brings me closer, patting my hair-sprayed head and trying to calm me down. “Tell your nerves to fuck off. You can walk out there and puke all over the catwalk and no one will notice because you look absolutely incredible.”

  That gets me to laugh, but then I imagine myself hurling all over and my body erupts into overdrive again. “I’m not going to puke, am I? Oh my God, what if I fall? What if I—?”

  “Stop it!” She pulls back and grasps my arms, staring into my heavily made-up eyes. “Do your best! This is an honor and you will accept it with grace and dignity.”

  “Rave, we’re talking about me. When have I ever done anything with grace?”

  She takes a beat and lifts her chin, jutting it out to make her point. “Always.” A single tear rolls down her cheek and she swipes it away, coughing and sniffling to pretend it never happened. “Everything about you is graceful and dignified. I don’t know why you can’t see that, but we all do. So make us proud, Leni, and most of all . . . have fun!”

  I hug her again, completely overwhelmed by a swell of accomplishment. How am I this lucky? If I never lose another pound, or kiss another guy, or walk another runway, this moment will be forever ingrained in my memory as one of genuine pride.

  “Thank you,” I say, choking back my own tears.

  “You cry, I kill you,” Marjorie from my studio waves her blush brush at me, shooing Raven away.

  I laugh, taking the twenty-millionth deep breath of the day. The hustle and bustle of backstage is enough to momentarily distract me and put me in the right state of mind. It’s almost go time. Get your shit together.

  I take another look in the bulb-lined mirror and smooth a few strands of my styled hair. The girls from the studio—my friends, teammates, the women I was supposed to be working alongside on this project—dolled me up to perfection. David and Siobhan instructed them based on the example I showed them yesterday. The rest of the models—mostly thin and svelte—look almost fake. What you
think is airbrushed or superimposed in magazines—it ain’t, honey. These girls are perfect. And while I know I’m not, I won’t allow that to take anything away from me today. I’m here, too. Siobhan saw the same thing in me that she saw in Blondie over there.

  “Show time!” Someone with a clipboard and an ear piece scurries through the dressing room.

  The girls who’ve done this before—aka everyone but me—line up in the order they were assigned and I’m left lost somewhere between disbelief and delusion. Is this really happening?

  “Yes, it is! Now, make me proud.” I don’t realize I said it out loud until Raven slaps my ass and ushers me in line with the rest of the models. The rest of the models. Seriously? I’m one of the models. Holy mother hell!

  I do as I’m told, inhaling and exhaling, shaking and swinging my arms, tapping my heeled feet against the floor. I squeeze between model ten and twelve, being as I was allotted the eleventh spot, and the rest unfolds so quickly I’m in the wings before I can talk myself into anything other than walking.

  The audience applauds as model ten makes her way back down the runway and a backstage assistant pushes me forward. With my heartbeat thundering in my ears, the pulsing of my blood drowning out the crowd, and the commotion of everything all at once, I can almost swear I hear a jingly rattle accompanied by a shredding tear. Ah, whatever, there are so many noises going on at once, I can’t make sense of any of them. I take direction, a man pointing to a mark on the stage, highlighted by a glaring spotlight. My legs start to do what they were taught to do during the quick rehearsal and I plaster the most convincing smile on my face as I ready myself for a real, live catwalk.

  One foot forward, one hand on my hip, one really, cold draft wafting right around my ass. I can’t look back to see where it’s coming from because that would be completely unprofessional, but I just know something isn’t right. One glance to my left and the look on her face—the girl that was in charge of sending me out—says it all. Not that I have to examine her face to get the picture, because hanging from her wrist full of dangly, obviously sharp, bangle bracelets is a huge, unmistakable chunk of my bathing suit bottom. Which means—my right ass cheek is in full view and indecently exposed for the entire fashion world to feast their eyes upon.

  Face down, ass up . . . yeah, FML!

  THINK FAST. I CAN EITHER stop the show like the amateur they already think I am or . . . the show must go on, right?

  Everything floats around in slow motion. Stage lights, cameras, a rumbling audience, the low hush of backstage snickers—no doubt all the skinny minnies are having a field day with this back there.

  But rather than allow my wardrobe malfunction and major WTF moment to steal my thunder, I channel the deepest, most neglected parts of me. Behind the bulge, beneath the self-doubt, right below the worst of my insecurities. Own it, they told me. I’m not about to destroy Siobhan’s art or disappoint Raven. If not for me, I decide to do it for them.

  With a sexy pout and a confident arch of my brow, I jut one hip out and trace the outline of my plus-sized but fierce figure. The audience seems to approve of my gutsy demonstration because their low murmurs are replaced with noticeable praise—and a catcall from Raven. This sparks a fire that’s always been dormant inside, fueling me to kick it up a notch. I sensually slide my hands from my breasts, to the curve of my waist, down the swell of my hips, and bring them around to my rear. With one single hook of my index fingers in the remaining elastic of the swimsuit bottom, I bunch the fabric together and stick it right where the sun don’t shine. This full-coverage, full-figured piece of art has just become a thong—improv at its best.

  Without so much as a thought about the fact my cellulite riddled ass is on display for this whole room of spectators, I strut down the aisle with as much grace and dignity as one can muster with her bare cheeks swaying in the wind. I make it down to the end of the ramp and pose the way I was instructed. Surprisingly, it comes naturally and the amazement of actually going through with this floors me. Like almost literally floors me. As I swivel to make my way back, I nearly lose my footing, but when I catch Raven’s proud-mama-gleam in her eyes at the front of the auditorium, I take another deep breath and continue on steady feet. Sashay, shante. Shante, shante, shante. RuPaul would be proud.

  Once back at the start, I give a final pose and then walk off the stage as if that was not the most humiliating and exhilarating moment of my life. My ribcage is probably cursing my heart right now because it’s beating so rapidly, it’s on the verge of popping some serious vesselage. I notice that the girl with the bracelets has been replaced by a gawky young dude with no accessories to be seen, but I spot her in the corner, blowing her nose into a wad of tissues. I could walk away. I’ll never see her again. But this isn’t her fault and honestly, it could have gone so much worse. So what? My ass had its debut. If Kim Kardashian became famous for her big, naked ass all over a sex tape . . . the future is bright for Leni Moore. Maybe I’ll get my own reality show, too. Andy Cohen, here I come! Mazel!

  I accept the terrycloth robe handed to me by another backstage assistant and kick off the killer heels. Making my way to Bracelet Girl, I look around the rest of the buzzing area. The show is almost halfway through and we’re all due back on stage for a final curtain call. The models who walked before me are all off sipping cucumber water and getting touched up, but before I return for duty I’d like to talk to this poor girl.

  “Hey,” I say, approaching her.

  She looks up and starts to blubber again. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry!” Her words are muffled by tissues, hands, crying, but her red-rimmed eyes hone in on me, pleading for mercy.

  “Come on, now. There’s no need to cry.” I place a hand on her knee and smile. “I survived. The show went on without a hitch. It’s nothing to get your panties in a bunch over.” I force a laugh, hoping my jibe will lighten her mood.

  “Is that supposed to be funny?” she cries.

  “Well, yeah.”

  The girl—whose name I never actually got—jumps out of her chair and stalks off in a string of moans and wails. I’m left in utter shock as she disappears into a room behind a door, hidden by a row of racks, lined with hoards of clothes. “Well, then. Bye, Felicia.” No skin off my back. Oh, wait. It actually kinda was.

  “Jesus, Rave. Did you call TMZ? I feel like a celebrity.”

  The mini after party at the auditorium was hard enough to take in. Everyone was congratulating me and pawing at me, and all the attention, although fabulous, was distinctly uncomfortable. I stayed as long as I could until the spotlight and questions became too much. While I pretty much had the time of my life, Dirty Dancing style, I left that party knowing today was the first and last day of my short lived modeling career. Been there, done that, came, saw, conquered. A model I am not cut out to be, and while everyone was trying to convince me otherwise, my mind was made up that I’d rather be behind the scenes than in them.

  Once back at the hotel, I finally had a moment to check my phone. The calls and messages came flooding in in droves. First it was my family, then Tatum and Ashley. Lane not only called and left me the sweetest message, but he had flowers delivered to my room that had me giddy and gushy and over the moon. Then there was Hudson. I’m not exactly sure how he found out about my fashion shenanigans, but he did and he left a message, congratulating me with an invitation to dinner.

  “How exactly did Hudson find out?” I ask, scrolling through the rest of the messages.

  “A little something called social media.” Raven sings and sips the glass of pink champagne sent to us from Siobhan herself, thanking me for rocking the runway, as she put it.

  “What did you do?”

  Raven downs the rest of her bubbly—I’m not sure how she can even look at alcohol let alone drink it after yesterday afternoon’s booze fest by the pool. “I might have posted a montage of you.”

  “Montage? What is this, a Sweet Sixteen? Rave, it wasn’t exactly my most shining moment.” My ass tingl
es with the reminder of its shameful unveiling.

  “The hell it wasn’t! Leni, get over it. You were amazing, and even if you don’t want to do it again, you did, and you deserve every bit of the praise you’re getting.” She cups her hand to her ear while I nose around her Facebook page. “I’m waiting for my thank you.”

  As I scan the pictures and read the comments from clients, friends, family, and strangers, my heart fills with something very foreign. Pride. I can count on like three fingers the moments in my life when I could look at myself in a picture and not want to cringe. I don’t know whether it’s the lighting or the make-up or that the moon is in retrograde, but . . .”Wow. I actually look pretty good.”

  Raven rushes over and plops down next to me on the edge of the bed. “Not pretty good, gorgeous! And this is just with my iPhone camera. Can you imagine what the photographer’s shots will look like?” She claps her hands and bounces up and down.

  I shake my head, rolling my eyes at her childish excitement. “What am I going to do with you?”

  She throws her arms around my shoulders and squeezes me. “The question, my dear friend, is what are we going to do with you?”

  “Meaning?” Insert scowl here. Not her, too. The act of convincing people is utterly draining.

  “I’m just saying that this is quite an accomplishment and you’re not nearly as keyed up as I thought you’d be. A little confidence goes a long way.”

  What is she, the excitement police? “I didn’t realize my feelings were being measured on some emotion meter.” I don’t mean to be curt, but until she’s walked a day in my Chuck’s, she shouldn’t judge. I don’t get my hopes up about things like this. This was a one time, one trick pony kind of deal. Luck, if you will. Not everyone is as accepting of the plumper peeps. Believe me, I know. I’ve had my fair share of ridicule, and just because one person happened to find me and my size appealing, doesn’t mean the world has suddenly changed its view on the topic.