Foreign Exchange (24 page)

The other girls pull their cell phones from their purses and drop them into the sack. I hesitate, but they stare
back at me.

“You’ll get it back when you leave,” the blonde says
, rolling her eyes like I’m stupid. And I get the impression from her words that she’s fairly convinced I’ll be the first to leave. If I were only here for modeling, I wouldn’t doubt that for a second.

“They don’t let you take anything with a camera into a studio,”
the brunette adds.

“Oh.” I let out a nervous laugh. “This one doesn’t actually have a camera. It’
s cheap.” I flip it open and closed to demonstrate. I pull my U.S. cell out of my purse, flick it on to make sure there’s no word from Tristan, and then drop it into the bag to not further frustrate the blonde. It’s understandable that they don’t want any cameras around with up and coming models.

The Bulgarian lady continues to stare at my cheap international phone
. I'm about to slip it back into my purse so she'll hopefully forget about it, when the blonde snatches it right out of my hand and drops it into the sack. I'm so stunned all I can do is look at her, with her tight, tenacious jaw. What if Sawyer tries to text me? It’s got to be close to five by now. I clutch my purse closed on my lap with both hands. They're not taking the rest of my personal stuff no matter what.

The
Bulgarian lady scrunches the top of the bag closed and simply says, “Please come.”

The other girls stand, leaving their paperwork on their chairs, so I do too.

We follow the lady down the hallway in a different direction and I concentrate on her long white pants and quick steps. When we reach the “T” at the end of the hallway, we turn right, and then make a quick left. I look up from the lady’s shoes, just realizing now that maybe I should be paying closer attention to where we’re going, in case I don’t have a chaperone to accompany me out once they realize I’m not a model. Although, hopefully if Tristan’s been here for a while, she can show me the way out.

The Bulgarian lady continues to lead us
through multiple, confusing hallways. Finally she opens another door near the end of the hall, motioning for us to go inside.

It’s a
large open room with tall, portably mounted spotlights and a black draped curtain. This is more like it. The fact that they have an actual studio on site is feeling more like a real professional outfit. I glance around, looking for Tristan, but there are only two men behind cameras in here.

I can picture Tristan in this
place, though. This is way better than her going off to Bulgaria.

The cameras are huge, like nothing I’ve ever seen before,
even though I’ve been to a number of photography shoots with Tristan. Both cameramen are gruff looking and scan the three of us as we walk in. The two girls I’m with are staring around glassy-eyed and eating up all the attention. I’d thought at least the blonde had some modeling experience, but now I’m not so sure.

The Bulgarian
lady tells us to line up in front of the black curtain. They seriously want to photograph all of us? I mean, I know I’m not butt-ugly or anything, but I’m also not model material.

Still, I stand there an
d try to keep my shoulders back, wondering if either of the cameramen speaks better English than the woman from the front counter. One of them has a ratty beard. The other is almost clean-shaven, but his dark brown hair sticks out at all angles, and not in the cool, meant-to-do-that way––more in the
past-his-prime-so-he-doesn’t-bother-to-brush-it
sort of way.

Just then, another man walks
through the door. He’s good-looking, well groomed compared to the cameramen, maybe in his thirties, with sandy-colored hair. He glances at the three of us girls, but only for a second. He’s walking slowly, carrying our clipboards, and reading from them.

One of the cameramen asks the other in Italian if he should start filming.

Filming?
Those must be video cameras. In my right mind, I know this must be for some kind of video interview, but still, something drops in my stomach at the thought of being filmed by these creepy men. I’d watched a documentary once about underground child pornography studios. I glance at the blonde and brunette, but they’re both staring at the man with the clipboards, all eagerness. Then I realize that they probably didn’t understand the cameraman’s Italian words.

When I glance
back, red lights have appeared atop both cameras.

“Blonde girl, turn to back,” the
bearded cameraman says in broken English. She instantly obeys, and his eyes leer toward her butt. He adjusts something on his camera, and I’m positive he’s zooming in on it.

The other cameraman asks the brune
tte to do the same. I swallow. All the photographers I’ve seen Tristan work with have been complete professionals, and I don’t have a clue what to do if one of them acts inappropriately, or what even
is
inappropriate in the world of overseas modeling. I wish I’d asked Sawyer more about what happens at the disreputable agencies.

Before I ha
ve to figure any of this out, I should probably ask the main guy, the guy with the clipboards, how I can find Tristan.

“Um, excuse me.” My voice sounds hollow in the big room. The blonde beside me juts out her elbow so it hits me in the ribs. Did she seriously just do that?

The guy with the clipboards is jotting notes on our papers and doesn’t even look up. So, fine. These girls are eager. I'll let them have their big moment.

The
bearded cameraman murmurs something in Italian, but all I catch this time is something about hope. I’ll bet he hopes his cute blonde girl is selected so he can continue to gawk at her behind the pretense of a camera.

When the man with the clipboard finally looks up, on impulse, I take a step
forward. The other two girls notice, quickly turning back around and taking two steps forward. So they’re in front of me.

I sigh, feeling bad that they don’t get it at all.

The man with the clipboard clears his throat, and then his words are slow and accented, which makes me realize English is not his first language either. I’m betting he’s also Bulgarian.  “Brittany and Courtney…” The girls on either side of me stand up straighter at his words. “Thank you for coming. You may pick up your possessions on way out.”

T
he two girls glance to each other and then me, their foreheads buckled in confusion. That’s what makes me finally realize what he’s saying.
They
should leave? And
I
should stay?

Im
possible. Even if Bulgarians are into a different look than Americans, different than Italians, if they chose Tristan, they certainly would choose these girls over me.

But the girls both nod, like they’ve heard this before, like they know exactly how to take rejection professionally, and
walk toward the door behind the Bulgarian lady. I step forward, toward the man with the clipboards, but he holds up a single finger, then watches the door until it closes behind the other girls.

My hands start to sweat
. I’m left here alone with all these men. And there’s something really not right about this. I’m so obviously not a model. But Tristan…she would have stayed until they made her leave. And if she’s here, I have to find her.

I
dart my eyes to every corner of the room, but there’s no one else in here.

Bulgarian modeling.
Something about it made me bristle from the first time I heard it. But I wanted so badly to be excited for Tristan, to think she’d had success. She’d probably wanted that, too.

Is
Tristan somewhere in this building? Is she okay? My mind races with questions. And then I suddenly think:
Sawyer!

I can’t text him because I don’t have my phones.
I don’t even know if he got my last text, if he’s coming to meet me. Or is he already here? Is it already after five?

But worse, I think of Tristan’s text to Sawyer and their parents. Maybe the text didn’t sound like Tristan because it wasn’t
from
Tristan. I swallow hard. The Bulgarian woman—did she send a text to anyone in Tristan’s contacts with the last name Bishop? Is she going to send the same text –
I’m busy for the next week. Talk to you all soon
—to everyone on my phone with the last name Monroe?

But the biggest question
of all is this: Where will I be in a week?

Am I only here because I’d
filled in that my parents are back in the U.S. on my application?

Finally the
man with the sandy-colored hair moves toward me. My mouth is dry, but I’m ready to form my questions about Tristan so we can get out of here. My brain is just muddled trying to figure out which language to ask them in.

When the man gets close to me, he reaches for my purse, which I just now realize I have in a death grip
between my hands.

I shake my head. “It has my passport. Everything,” I say, trying my voice in English.

“Passport?” he says now with a stronger accent. He smiles back toward the cameramen. “She has a passport.” He lets out a loud single laugh, like this is funny. Bile rises in my throat.

“Look, I’m just here to find my friend
. Then I’ll get out of your way.” My voice is shaky but clear. I take a sideways step, toward the door.

“You are American?”
The sandy-haired man shadows my step, and then stares me up and down. He’s not nearly as good-looking close up, but he smiles as though he thinks he is.

I nod, trying my best to get along,
to make things easy on everyone so I can get out of here.

He reaches out and rubs the side of my arm
as I take another step toward the door. His hand is strong on me, like he’s trying to guide me back in front of the black curtain, but I don’t budge.

“Good, good,” he says, soothingly, like he’s a father or uncle or something. My arm bristles to his touch, but I try to keep it still.

“Tristan Bishop?” I say quietly, a slight plea in my voice.

He takes a ste
p closer, like he can’t hear me. His hand is still on my arm.

“My friend, Tristan Bishop, is she he
re—”

My throat is so dry, my voice cracks.

His eyes narrow at me. “What name you say?” His voice sounds suddenly angry. He knows Tristan’s name? I have to find her!

“T-tristan B-bishop.”

I don’t even see it coming, but his hand leaves my arm and flies at my face. I’m not sure if I scream or if I’m too shocked to scream. There’s a ringing in my ears, but other than that my whole world, my whole life, seems suddenly silent. What have I gotten myself into?

I bend down and cup my
stinging face with my hands, willing my breath to come back to me.

When I look up, the guy I’d once thought was good looking is now near the doorway. His arms are flailing as he says something to the Bulgarian lady in a language I don’t
know. I look in every direction for another way out, but there isn’t one.

Because of all of this immediate confusion, my mind zooms in on anything it can understand.
Which is the little bits of Italian I can overhear from the cameramen.

“Pretty,” I think
one of them says, but then the other says “No,” and I think he means “Not pretty.” Which, hell, that’s fine with me. If I’m not pretty enough, please, pretty please, send me away. I snarl up my face at the one who said I’m not pretty and then the bearded one says, “Aw, give her a chance,” in Italian.

But he doesn’t understand. I don’t
want
a chance. Especially if a chance means getting slapped around some more.

The cameramen
pay absolutely no attention to the Bulgarian argument, which makes me think they may not speak the language.

I try to calm
my breathing, because if there’s one thing I learned in self-defense last year, it’s that panicking never helps in a scary situation. Stay calm. Keep a clear head.

I’m trying, oh, I’m trying, but all I want to do is curl up on the floor and bawl like a baby until somebody rescues me. I want my mom. I don’t care how much we fight
. I want to be back home, curled up in her arms. A small cry escapes my throat.

Breathe,
I command myself.

I hear another Italian word, “Try,” and suddenly
the Bulgarian is back in front of me, and I’m not sure who said the word.

Try what? My gaze bounces between the three of them. Try
what?

The Bulgarian
says something to the photographers I don’t understand. It seems we all have something in common. We’re all multi-lingual. But none of us share the same fluencies.

I remember the photographer back at the
other modeling agency. He’d seemed louder, angrier than this Bulgarian guy. But somehow the Bulgarian scares me far more.