“A little bloated,” Harper mimicked under her breath as soon as the door closed. “Who does he think he is?”

One of the hottest up and coming designers in L.A., she told herself. Harper sighed. Tired was, obviously, code for fat. Her feet hurt, even though she’d balled up her Furoshiki shoes to strap on between the go-sees. Since when did wearing stilettos for a block or two hurt?

She chewed her lip as she checked the ETA on her phone. Twenty-eight minutes to walk. And how much for a Lyft? She didn’t even bother waiting for the app to tell her. It would be spending money she didn’t have.

Shit. All morning had been go-sees and there were clearly no nibbles. Even the polite designers with their canned, “I’ll get in touch with your agent if we go in that direction” were clearly on the hunt for someone else. Someone younger.

Harper shoved her standard black stilettos into the Goode Kids knapsack she’d picked up at some folk concert Molly had dragged her to. By the time she reached her last go-see, she could feel a sheen of sweat on her skin. Well that’s just perfect, she thought. Harper wobbled on one foot while she slipped on the stilettos outside the small brick building.

“Harper!” Molly said as soon as she walked in. “I didn’t know you were coming to this one.” Her roommate scooted over and patted the stick pleather seat beside her.

“Might as well give it a shot,” she said. “What time are you?”

“Eleven thirty.” Molly ran a bronze hand across her perfectly buzzed head.

“I’m eleven forty.”

“Awesome! I’ll wait for you.”

“Molly Horst?”

“Wish me luck,” Molly said, and she shot Harper a dazzling smile.

Harper pulled out her little mirror and examined her face before she was called. The eyelash extensions definitely helped to open up her eyes—and draw attention away from the little wrinkles that didn’t fade as quickly as they used to when she stopped smiling. And the microbladed brows certainly made her look younger. She re-applied white liner to her water rim and willed her eyes to look even bigger.

“Harper Brex?” the brusque voice cut through her examination. Molly squeezed her arm as they passed one another.

“You got this,” Molly whispered.

“Harper Brex,” the designer said as his assistant handed him her comp card. “Five foot ten, twenty-five years old—twenty-five?” The designer pushed his obnoxious Jackie O. glasses up his nose and squinted at her. “Yeah. I can see that. I wasn’t—you look a bit tired, dear.”

“Sorry,” she said. She wanted to slap herself for apologizing. “It’s my last go-see of the day.”

“Hmm, yes, well, I imagine that with your maturity in this industry, you understand pre-show prep lasts much longer than morning go-sees.”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Alright, let’s see what you’ve got. Put this on.” One of the assistants tossed a sheer dress to her that would barely skim her ass. “I haven’t got all day. Just to the mirror there and back.”

She pulled off her go-to wrap dress that didn’t mess up her hair and stood briefly in nothing but a beige thong while she pulled on the dress. “Thick,” she thought she heard someone say.

The walk to the mirror and back was all autopilot. She’d walked too many runways to keep count and knew her saunter was perfect. But that wouldn’t make up for her age. Or that goddamned stomach.

“Yes, well, thank you, Hannah. We’ll be in touch.”

“Harper,” she said, but the designer shooed her away.

“Well? How’d it go?” Molly asked. She stood up as soon as Harper walked into the hallway.

“It didn’t.”

“Oh, babe, you don’t know that yet.”

“Yeah. I do. I’m—I’m getting too old for this, Mol.”

“Oh, please! You are not.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“What? ‘Cause black don’t crack?”

“Because you’re twenty-one!”

Molly walked back to the house at her side, in companionable silence.

Lately, it seemed like all the designers and casting directors don’t think she’s right for any campaign or show. At first, she’d thought it had just been a fluke. Maybe she really had overdone it on that weekend trip to Tijuana and just needed a week or two to rejuvenate. But she hadn’t bounced back.

Ever since she was seventeen, she’d slayed more go-sees than other girls. Harper had been kept so busy she’d hardly slept. Yeah, maybe that was part of the problem, she thought.

As they approached the little storybook house, she saw all five cars littered in the driveway and street. “Oh, God, that’s just what I need right now. A full house.”

Molly shrugged. “I heard in New York, they shove, like, ten models into an apartment.”

“Yeah, well, seven in a tiny house isn’t much better.” Still, she was relieved that she saw Helena’s car out front. The house mother didn’t keep a regular schedule of dropping in, and right now Harper could really use some doting.

Harper started looking for the Yugoslovian former model as soon as she pulled her shoes off in the entryway. “Where’s Helena?” she asked Britney, whose blonde hair was knotted on top of her head while she binge watched The Bachelorette.

“Where do you think?” Britney asked, and pointed to the back patio.

“Helena?” Harper asked. The screen door gave a painful squeak as it opened onto a tiny piece of land flush with orange trees.

“Harper,” she said as she exhaled a long plume of smoke. “Where you been? Go-sees?” Harper loved how Helena’s “wh’s” sounded so much like a “v.”

“Unsuccessful ones,” she said as she slumped into the white cast iron chair next to Helena. “I just don’t get it,” she said. “I mean, I’m not that old! These days, the whole, rigid idea of what models are supposed to look like is changing.”

Helena raised a brow and held out the cigarette to Harper. Helena’s arms were bone-thin, and looked even slimmer and more toned thanks to her dark coloring. Harper shook her head.

“It helps,” Helena said. “With the fat.” She was nothing if not blunt. “You need to take off a few pounds. Then you go back, same designers, they’ll love you. You’ll see.”

“Yeah,” Harper said quietly. “You’re right.” It stung, just like it always did. She knew Helena didn’t mean to sound harsh and that she should have a thick skin by now, but she didn’t.

“Smoking, it kills the appetite,” Helena said. “You lose the fat, and they still don’t book you? Then you have a problem.”

“Thanks, Helena,” Harper repeated. “I’m going to go change for the gym.”

“Good girl,” Helena said. “Gym is good, but smoking, it’s easier.”

The last thing she wanted to do was trek to the gym in the middle of a hot California afternoon, but she knew it was good for her. As soon as she stepped into the gym, she was hyper aware of all the girls around her—taller girls, younger girls, girls with bigger thigh gaps. She put her feet together in front of the mirror and stood up straight so she couldn’t cheat. There was maybe one-quarter inch of thigh gap left. She remembered when it had been at least one inch.

Harper sighed and climbed onto the elliptical in her Lulu Wunder Unders. She plugged in an hour of hill intervals and shoved the earbuds in. Bored after just one Lil’ Wayne song, she started to scroll through her phone. When Sean’s name went by in her recent activity, she smiled.

That tattoo artist was hot as hell. She smiled and opened a text box. “Hey, remember me,” she started to type, but deleted it. How fucking desperate are you. “This is Harper, still up for the party?” She knew it wasn’t perfect, but she pressed send anyway.

Since she was seventeen, she’d been hyper-focused on her career. Now that it was going down in flames, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to bring a boy on board.

Her phone lit up with a text message. Harper grabbed it, eager for Sean’s reply, but it was just a text from her mom. “Have you heard about intermittent fasting? Might want to try it, I’ve included a link.”

She wrinkled her nose. Her mom always tried to help, but it was always about losing weight, working out, getting more call backs.

Either you lose some weight, or you figure something else out.

Harper held her own gaze in the mirror in front of her, increased the level and went harder.