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Oscar looked miserable, but Brian kept talking. “I mean, you seem like a smart guy; do you really want to leave such a big carbon footprint with what’s supposed to be your art?”

I tried to gesture to him to stop, but it’s hard to be subtle when you’re wearing a cotton towel, you’re surrounded by klieg lights, and there are half a dozen photo assistants, stylists, and art directors watching your every move. But Brian kept going on about the environment, global warming, the time he had dinner with Al Gore, and Leonardo DiCaprio. Finally Oscar said, “Hey, man, I’m going to have to ask you to go.”

Brian was livid. “You’re kicking me out? Do you not know that this is my girlfriend? There would be no photo shoot without Bee.”

That whooshing sound you just heard? It was of all the air being sucked out of my lungs. In other words, I was horrified.

“Brian, I’ll meet you later,” I said quietly.

“Okay, baby,” he said, making a big show of coming over onto the seamless backdrop for the photo shoot and tongue kissing me in front of everyone, even though I was in full makeup.

“I will see
you
later, sexy,” he said. “And make sure you get some lunch. Don’t let these people try to starve you. I know how this industry is.”

And on that note, he left.

Oscar stepped behind the camera, looked at me through the lens, then said, “Your makeup is ruined. We’ll have to do it all again. Let’s continue after lunch. I’ll see everyone in forty-five.”

Syreeta handed me a bathrobe, a big fluffy robe like the kind they have in really nice hotels. I walked over to the catering table, grabbed a plateful of pasta salad and two brownies (I know, I know), and then found a quiet corner to sit by myself.

I was midway through my second brownie when I heard Leslie’s voice.

“Just because they’re only shooting you from the neck up doesn’t mean you can eat like there’s no tomorrow,” she said.

I looked up and there was my super-agent, catching me in some very un-supe-like behavior. She looked gorgeous. But you’ve heard me talk about Leslie. Gorgeous is a given. If she ever looks like crap, you’ll hear it on CNN.

“Am I in trouble?” I asked, confident that Oscar must’ve called her.

“For what?”

“Oh, nothing,” I said, relieved.

“I mean, you don’t get ‘in trouble’ because your friend comes to the photo shoot and disrupts a multi-million-dollar ad campaign.”

Oscar had called her.

“There’s a reason we don’t bring boyfriends and girlfriends to shoots, Bee.”

“But the stylists and hair and makeup have people drop by all the time.”

Leslie shook her head. “Those are industry friends. People in the business who know how to behave.”

“I got it.”

“So who was that guy?”

“My boyfriend,” I said.

She looked puzzled. “DJ Go Drop Dead?”

I shook my head. “I was . . . hanging out with Kevin. But this is my real boyfriend, the guy I was dating before I became a model.”

“The one who dropped you right before Thanksgiving?”

Had I even mentioned Brian to Leslie? The woman had a memory like a steel trap.

“We got back together,” I said.

“After you had a billboard in Times Square and were on the
Today
show.”

“Technically, yes.”

Leslie gave me a hug. “Be careful, Bee.”

“That’s what you said about the rapper.”

“That’s what I have to say about all the men in your life now that you’re famous. You’re seventeen years old, and when you’re a hot young model, it’s even harder to know who to trust.”

I picked up one of the Polaroids that Oscar had taken to test the light. Who was the girl in the photographs? The one who smiled like she had all the answers. I wanted to be her.

19

Bee-sieged

Two
weeks later, I had lunch with Leslie at the Four Seasons, which is like something out of a movie. Doormen in top hats. Flower arrangements bigger than a person. Super-swank.

I know she’s my agent and all the models say that agents are supposed to be semi-evil. But Leslie had a sweet side too. Don’t get me wrong—she could be gangsta. Nobody negotiated harder than she did, but she was also cool. Like the big sister I never had. Or rather the older, British, size-two 2 sister I never had.

I ordered the soup and salad. Leslie ordered the same.

“Well, Bee, I’ve got some good news and some bad news. What do you want to hear first?”

“Good news, always,” I said, resisting the urge to gobble on the warm bread at the table.

“Should I have them take away the bread?” Leslie asked, reading my mind or my stomach.

“Yes, please,” I said.

Leslie gestured for the waiter, and he came and took the bread away.

“The good news, Les,” I said.

“The good news is that Mattel wants to do a Barbie doll in your image. They’re going to call her Bee. She’s going to be Barbie’s plus-size cousin.”

“Get out!” I screeched.

“I’m not going anywhere without my fifteen percent,” Leslie said, cracking a very typical agent joke.

I sat there for a second in shock. My own Bee doll. Of all the things I ever imagined when I began modeling, this was the one thing that had never crossed my mind.

“How did this happen? Are they doing all the Baby Phat girls?”

“Nope,” Leslie said. “Just you. In some ways, we have your parents to thank. Mattel really likes that your name is Bee. Apparently, some exec at Mattel saw you on the
Today
show a while back and thought, This could be Barbie’s cousin, Bee. Then she saw your ‘Sweet 16’ editorial in Teen Vogue and she loved seeing you in all those frothy prom dresses. It made her think that her initial instinct, that you could be a fashion doll, was spot-on. They have an artist working on some prototypes and sketches. I’ll have them messengered over to you.”

For once, everything was right in my world. My grades had slipped a little from first semester, but as my adviser kept telling me, a few Cs never ever hurt anybody. Not even when that person was premed. Brian and I had gotten back together, and because I was so busy with work, Chela hadn’t found out. If I wasn’t working, I still met her on Friday nights to go salsa dancing at the Copa. I just never mentioned Brian. And if Brian asked what I was doing on Friday night, I told him I was working. I believe the Latin phrase for this is lying out of both sides of mouthus.

“This is amazing,” I said, for once telling the absolute truth. “One day when I have a little girl, I can give her a Bee doll to play with.”

“Are you kidding?” Leslie said. “My daughter’s already put in an order for twelve. She wants to give them as a birthday gift to every girl in her class.”

I started to cry. I just couldn’t believe it. “You said there was some bad news,” I said.

Leslie handed me a pack of tissues. “The licensing agreement at Mattel is ironclad. You’re going to make a flat fee for this doll, but there’s no royalties.”

I dabbed my eyes. “That’s the bad news? I don’t care about royalties.”

“Well, I do,” Leslie said, flashing her super-evil agent grin. “When I saw your contract, I nearly shed a few tears myself.”

The next day, I was hanging out with Brian when a messenger arrived. The package was from Mattel. I put it on my desk to open later, in private. As much as I was psyched about having a Bee doll, I was kind of shy about talking about it in front of Brian. The modeling stuff brought out a weird side of him. On the one hand, he decried the whole fashion industry as “shallow, superficial, and out of touch with the real issues in the world.” At the same time, he seemed to want to be all in it. It was confusing.

“What’s in the envelope?” he asked.

“Oh, just some papers.”

He picked up the envelope.

“What kind of papers would you get from Mattel?”

I didn’t want to tell him, but why should I have to hide such good news from my boyfriend? The boyfriend I wanted to marry and someday have a baby with so that she could play with her very own Bee doll.

“They’re making a doll of me,” I said.

“A Bee doll?” Brian was incredulous. I understood. I was still a little in shock myself.

“Yeah,” I said, opening the envelope.

“Is she going to be your size?”

I don’t know why, but the question really hurt my feelings. He was a guy; what did he care about what size the Bee doll was?

“Yep.” I took three or four doll molds out of the bag as well as some sketches.

Brian picked one up. “They don’t have faces. They’re kind of creepy.”

“I know,” I said. “They want me to pick the shape I like the best.”

“Well, this one has the best shape,” Brian said, picking up a doll with a Jessica Biel booty and Shakira abs.

“I like her,” I said.

“But this one looks the most like you,” he said, picking up the doll with a pear-shaped body: small breasts, medium waist, big hips.

“Okay,” I said. “But I like this one.”

I picked up the doll with the Jessica Biel booty and Shakira abs. I mean, who cares, right? If you looked at her arms, her hips, and her thighs, the doll was still clearly plus. And I’d been working out with a trainer for nearly three months now. By summer, I fully intended on having a sculpted booty and, if not a six-pack, then at least a two-pack or a three-pack.

“Well, you aren’t shaped like that. You should be honest,” Brian said.

Ouch. That’s all I have to say about this particular subject is ouch, ouch, and double ouch.

“If I want the Bee doll to have a banging body, then that’s my right, Brian. It’s just a doll,” I said, snatching it away from him.

“Whatever,” he said, getting up. “I’m just saying do you believe all this stuff about loving your plus-size self or is it just an act? I’ve got to get to class.”

He was all geeked out because he had been selected for this super-exclusive senior seminar in international conflict resolution. It was being taught by some big shot named Kofi Annan. But all I could think after Brian left was his little sarcastic comments.

As a gift for landing the Mattel contract, Leslie had gotten me tickets to this new series that MTV was doing called MTV Amped. It was like the opposite of Unplugged. In
Amped
, they were going to take artists who normally played acoustic instruments and give them electric guitars and have them do their same songs, all amped up. The first artist on the roster was Norah Jones. I was really psyched to snag the tickets, and of course I asked Brian even though I knew Chela was the hugest Norah Jones fan. It just seemed like more of a boyfriend-girlfriend kind of thing. We had backstage passes too, which was wicked cool.

The only problem was that Brian seemed to think he was going out on a private date with Norah Jones. He must have changed clothes at least half a dozen times. He kept saying, “How do I look?” And I’d say, “You look great.” And he’d say, “Yeah, but I’m meeting Norah Jones and she’s hot. Did you know she’s half Indian and she’s like some sort of special ambassador to the UN?” I wanted to say, Hey, buddy, I’m kind of a big deal too. I’ve got a billboard in Times Square. But how do you say something like that without sounding like a typical self-centered model?

We were supposed to arrive an hour before taping started, and we got there about five minutes before the show was to start. When we arrived at the studio on the West Side, I gave our names at the backstage door. The publicist Liba, came running up to me.

“Bee, I’m so glad you’re here; we’re just about to start,” Liba said, then, turning to the girl with the clipboard, “You’re supposed to radio me when the VIPs arrive.”

Liba led us through the crowded studio audience and to the front row, where Norah’s band was setting up.

She went to two people and said, “I’m sorry, these seats belong to Bee Wilson. I’m going to have to seat you in the back.”

Two girls got up, and Brian and I sat down.

“Thanks, Liba,” I said. “These seats are amazing.”

“No problem, Bee. I loved your spread in Glamour. Do you have my card? If you want tickets to anything, call me.”

Then she walked away.