Paint Me Beautiful: A Tale of Anorexia a Love Story and the Rebirth of Claire Simone Read online

  Table of Contents Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Enjoyed This?

  Help Guide

  More Books By

  About the Author

  C.M. Stunich

  Sarian Royal

  Paint Me Beautiful: a Tale of Anorexia, a Love Story and the Rebirth of Claire Simone

  Copyright © C.M. Stunich 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 1863 Pioneer Pkwy. E Ste. 203, Springfield, OR 97477-3907.

  www.sarianroyal.com

  ISBN-10: 1938623525(eBook)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938623-52-3(eBook)

  Edited by Brandy Little of "Little Bee's Editing Services"

  Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal

  "Optimus Princeps" and "Ultra Condensed Sans Serif" Fonts © Manfred Klein

  Hannah's Messy Handwriting Font © Hannah Marlin

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  for Marlena Fein,

  street team director, friend, and an integral member of the Kitty Crew.

  You believed in me before anybody else did.

  Thanks for being my slave driver. Crack that whip!

  All journeys have to start somewhere.

  In my experience, they usually begin where you least expect them, peeping out from behind corners and under rugs. They grab you by the ankle and take you to places you'd never thought you'd go, and they don't care if you're already heading somewhere, if you've already mapped out your future. When fate takes control, you can either ride with it or fight against it. I chose to fight, but we'll talk about that later. For now, let's talk about Emmett Sinclair.

  He's tall, almost as tall as me when I'm wearing my best heels. He has these eyes that can pierce your soul if you let them, like he's just in tune with the universe and everything in it. Maybe that's how he spotted me, chose me, made me the center of his world? I guess I'll never know because the day he first notices me, I barely even see him.

  I'm standing in line with a group of pretty girls. They've all got perfect hair and perfect teeth and smooth skin, like cream or cocoa or bronze. I'm comparing myself to every single one of them, starting with the blonde in front and working my way back. I am so out of my league, I think as I examine the redhead two ahead of me in line. She's at least ten pounds thinner than I am and she has this lanky-pretty quality that I've seen in a lot of magazines lately, like she was born skinny, not made skinny.

  I adjust the straps of my tank top and hope I look appropriate. My blonde hair is slicked back into a ponytail and I've got on a pair of size two jeans. I wish they were smaller. In fact, I'm utterly convinced that I'm going to be passed over because I'm too fat. I made the journey out here anyway. It was either that or sit at home and make peanut butter cookies with my mom, defend myself for not wanting to taste something made with two sticks of butter. I shift back and forth as a murmur passes down the line of girls.

  “No thank you,” they're all saying. I turn around and find a boy. It's Emmett Sinclair, but I don't know that yet, not until he gets to me with a red tray in his hand and a black beanie on his head. Tufts of chestnut hair stick out in random places, just enough that it gives him this messy-cute look. Any longer and he'd look scruffy, but he's clean shaven and his shirt is crisp and clean. He's also wearing a red apron with a Super Smoothie logo on it.

  “Good afternoon,” he says, and the words come out of my mouth automatically.

  “No thank you.” I can't drink one of those cups, not when I'm seconds away from finding out if my destiny is in reach, if I'll be one of those girls that you hear about, the ones that get discovered in a mall. They start in modeling and work their way up to TV, film, music. A triple threat they used to call them – dance, act, sing – but the stakes are even higher now. To be that girl, the one that they all look at, that they all want to be, you have to be beautiful, more beautiful than they are because it's the only way you'll stand out.

  “Are you sure?” he asks, and in his voice, I can see that he's trying to flirt with me.

  He's cute, so I say, “Catch me after this? My stomach's in knots, and I can't think straight.” I don't have time for cute, but there it is.

  “Emmett Sinclair,” he says, and he doesn't move away. I smile nice and tight, but I can't stop looking at the girls that are walking down the faux runway they've set up in the middle of the food court with butcher paper. It's been taped to the linoleum floor nice and tight, but it's not enough to keep the stilettos from tearing it here and there as the girls stomp their way down to the end, pose, and turn. “Your turn,” the boy continues and although I'm barely listening to him, I respond.

  “Claire,” I say. “Claire Simone.” Emmett chuckles and tugs down the front of his beanie. He's totally feeling me now, but I barely see him. I see long legs and skinny bodies and desperation that mirrors my own. God, they want this so bad. Almost as much as I want it. Almost. Nobody wants this like I do. I want to be seen; I want to be beautiful. I want to be that girl that other girls look at and wish they were. Why? I don't know. I'm not a ward of the state or a victim of abuse or anything like that. I'm a girl with two loving parents and a big sister who's sweet, if a bit pushy. Something inside of me just wants to be seen, and there's nothing wrong with that, is there?

  “Sinclair and Simone,” Emmett says, and I turn my face slightly to look at him. My stomach is twisting and clenching, giving me the world's worst cramps. I fight them back and try to ignore Emmett as he balances his tray from one hand to the other. “Sounds tragic, don't you think?”

  “Mm hmm,” I say, but I'm not trying to be rude. I'm not trying to be anything. I just want to get through this with a nod or a smile from the panel of men and women that sit behind that long table and stare. I want one, just one, of them to come up to me and say, Wow, Claire, you are it. You are the next big thing. I don't think I can handle anymore rejection. This is my fifth casting this week, and if I don't sign with an agency soon, my mother is going to really set in on me about choosing a different career path.

  The line scoots forward and Emmett follows. His samples are melting, but I don't think he cares. This guy is really into me, I think, but I can't be happy about that because it's almost my turn to walk. My runway walk is not my best attribute. I take great pictures though. At least, I've been told that before. I'm both commercial and high fashion say the agencies who never sign me. I sigh and shift my portfolio from one arm to the other.

  “Is this for America's Next Top Model?” he asks, and I don't sigh or roll my eyes like the girl in front of me does. I smile softly and shake my head.

  “Not quite, no,” I say, and Emmett nods. His brown eyes are curious though, but he can tell I'm way too deep into this right now to flirt with him, so he takes a step back.

  “Good luck, Claire,” he tells me and moves over to a table to sit down. I wonder what his boss at the Super Smoothie thinks about that, but I can't really focus on him right now. I need to keep myself focused. Think tall, think pretty, think perfect. I swallow hard and close my eyes for a second to get control over myself.

  “Next.”

  That one word, so simple, draws me forward with the skinny redhead and the girl between us, the one that I think is pretty, but is too short. Agencies don't like short. They don't like fat either, so I make a point to suck in my stomach as I approach the butcher paper and step onto it, unconsciously memorizing the rips and tears, so I don't have to look down while I'm walking. That's the sign of a real, true supermodel.

  I lay my portfolio down slowly, purposely letting the other girls set theirs down first. These people have been staring at pretty pictures all day, and they don't have the time nor the patience to sit and examine each one. If they're only going to glance at one of our portfolios, I want it to be mine. I feel bad for the other two girls, but I've had worse done to me, so I decide this is just karma. The redhead looks familiar to me anyhow, and I wouldn't be surprised if she'd sabotaged me before.

  “Set up at the end of the runway, please. Hold your pose and turn back. When you're finished, please come back up and grab your portfolios. We'll call you.” The woman who's speaking sounds bored and looks it, too. Her eyes take us all in, judge us in a split second. She doesn't need to see us walk; she already knows, and I can tell she doesn't like me. It's because I'm so fat. That's why. I feel so guilty over the food I ate last night that it makes me sick. I had cheese. I shouldn't have had cheese.

  I march to the end of the runway and spin, letting my hair flow out behind me. I have nice hair; I've always had nice hair. Unfortunately, with extensions and weaves and all that, it doesn't really matter. Hair is fixable. Fat is not – not on a runway. I try to tell myself that I look good, that I look professional. I've got on new skinny jeans, new shoes, just a bit of light foundation. I look polished.

  It's not enough.

  The woman at the end of the panel motions for us to move forward, and we do, in perfect unison I might add. At first, the short girl keeps up with us, but soon, our long legs move the redhead and I past her. I make sure to swing my arms a bit, but not too much. I don't want to look like an ape. My strides are long and graceful and my eyes are focused on a man with a goatee who I think might be straight. You never know in this industry, but it's worth a try. I could never do anything like sleep my way to the top, but if it's just a bit of eye contact, that's okay.

  I pause, put one hand on my hip and tilt my chest side to side, popping my shoulder forward and my ass back, just enough so that I look shapely, but not too shapely. I've been practicing this walk for ages, and I hope to hell it's paid off. It may not be my best skill, but if it's good enough and my pictures are good enough, maybe they'll take me on.

  I turn and out of the corner of my eye, I see Emmett clapping. He's the only one doing it, and it's a little weird, but it makes me smile. Good thing the agency reps can't see my face now. I hit the end of the runway and pose again. I'm staring at a faux wall that's been constructed to give a slight bit of privacy to us in this busy commercial hub. There are people leaning over the railings from above and gaping from either side of the runway, but that's okay. That's what we're here for: to be looked at.

  I turn around again, still a model, still perfection in heels, and walk right back towards that panel like I'm stomping for Alexander McQueen or something. The other girls are not following suit, so I know that I am standing out, for better or worse. When I hit the table, I don't pose, just reach out and grab my portfolio. It hasn't been touched. That much is obvious.

  “Thank you,” I mumble along with the other girls. Nobody stops me as I walk away. Right off the bat, I begin to analyze my performance. Did I walk too fast? Too slow? Did I swing my arms enough?

  “You were really great,” Emmett says as I pause next to him. Honestly, I had forgotten his existence. I feel a gentle flush warm my cheeks and try to give him a genuine smile.

  “Thanks,” I say as I reach up and let my hair tumble down around my shoulders. I fluff it with my fingers and shake my head a bit. Emmett's brown eyes follow my motions, drink me in like I am the cat's meow. I like that, so my smile gets bigger all on its own. My sister thinks I'm narcissistic, but that isn't it at all. I'm just focused on my dreams and those dreams depend on my appearance, so I pay attention to it. That's all it is. My stomach growls a bit, and I lay my arm across it to keep it quiet.

  “Want to grab something to eat?” Emmett asks, and I want to say yes, but I can't. I ate a lot this morning anyway, and my stomach is just riled up from all of the anxiety.

  “Aren't you working?” I ask as I point a finger at his apron. Emmett pinches the straps with his fingers and grins at me. He has long canines that peek out of his lips a bit when he smiles. Cute.

  “You mean this?” he asks as he drops the fabric and adjusts his beanie. “I'm just about to get off for lunch. Have you ever been to The Winged Ones? It's this fantastic sandwich shop that has a roof garden upstairs. It's a diamond in the rough, really. My treat.” His offer is appealing, to be sure, but I have an early morning casting, and I can't be tired or I get these massive bags under my eyes. It's an open call for a print campaign, too, which is rare and not something I can screw up. I bite my lip gently and try to let him down easily. He really is nice.

  “I can't,” I say and he groans, reaching up to pull his beanie over his face.

  “It's the apron, isn't it?” he asks as I take a moment to admire the swell of his muscular arms and the way his right eye peeks out from beneath the black knitted hat to examine me. “Hey, I understand though. You're wondering why you should be interested in a guy who works at the Super Smoothie, right?” I chuckle and shake my head.

  “Not at all,” I say because that isn't it. I just have other things on my mind right now. First and foremost is how I'm going to be able to skip out of family dinner again. I've gotten away with it six days in a row, but tonight, Marlena is coming over, and there is no way she's going to miss my absence. Unfortunately, Mom has also chosen tonight to make her famous fried chicken. All of that grease makes me sick to my stomach, but I know I won't be able to escape that table without eating at least a piece. Already, I feel nauseous. “I just have this family thing tonight, so … ” I trail off and tuck some hair behind my ear. I feel like I'm in high school again. “How about Friday?” I blurt before Emmett gets the chance to say anything else. He pulls his beanie off his head and lays it in his lap. His brown hair is mussy and totally sexy.

  “Friday is perfect,” he tells me and then passes me his phone. I plug in my number and hand it back to him. I could take his number, too, but I won't remember to call. It's nothing personal, but it's all up to him now. The ball is in his court. If he calls, I'll go. If he doesn't, then there will be others. Nothing against Emmett because he seems really nice and he's absolutely gorgeous, but I just don't have time to be serious with men right now. They are not my top priority; modeling is. Fashion is. “Hey, can I take your picture, too?” he asks as he shakes his phone back and forth with one hand.

  “Why?” I ask as my eyes slide over to the line of girls that snake through the crumb covered tables in the food court, wind around the fountain near the escalators and trail back towards an inspiring window display of a local boutique. I hear they have some good stuff in there, and I've been meaning to go in for quite some time, but I'm just not happy with my body right now, and it's not fun to shop for clothes if you're not happy.

  “You're so beautiful,” Emmett says, but the words roll off me like water on a duck's feathers, just slide right over and down my s ides, giving me the chills but little else. I don't feel beautiful. If I was, the agency reps would've smiled at me or at the very least looked at my portfolio. I glance over my shoulder briefly and see that the bored woman with the lumpy chin is no longer bored. She's standing up and grinning from ear to ear, shaking the hand of a waspish girl with big ears and squinty eyes. She's skinny though, much skinner than me, definitely a size zero. People can talk all they want about the industry changing and about bans on too thin models, but that's just in the big games, just for show. Back here, at the starting line, it's all about skinny. It has been ever since Twiggy emerged as the new pretty, when Marilyn Monroe was out, and rail thin became in. “You know what?” Emmett says as he stands up and grabs his red tray in one hand. “Don't respond to that.” He spins the tray around with his other hand which is actually quite impressive and makes me smile. “That was weird. I don't know why I even said that.” Emmett chuckles and winks at me as he turns away. “See you on Friday,” he calls over his shoulder as he slides his beanie over his head with his other hand.

  “See you on Friday,” I say.

  When I get home, my mom is already in the kitchen with a bubbling fryer and a plate of breaded chicken. My stomach turns at the smell.

  “Claire?” she asks as I let the door slam shut behind me. I rest my back against it and take a deep breath, plaster a smile across my face and move down the short hall towards the living room. My dad is sitting in his favorite armchair, a big, green, holey piece of work that's been in this house since before I was born. He glances up at me and smiles.

  “How did it go?” he asks as he pries himself away from his newest murder/mystery novel and focuses his brown eyes on mine. I don't catch his gaze; I can't. My dad has this horrible habit of being able to read people. It's almost like he can sense honesty by looking into a person's eyes. He's caught me in dozens of lies over the years. From big to small, Big Bob sees it all. It's one of his favorite sayings and cheesy as it is, it's true.