Scripted

seven

seven

           “So, what do you think?” I did a twirl in front of the mirror, even though the dress was tighter than a European’s jeans.

           “You look fat,” said the resident European. I rolled my eyes at her assessment and turned to the other person, hoping to receive a better reception.

           “I’d rather you weren’t wearing anything at all, but I like it,” the boy voiced with a smirk. I waited for a more in-depth critique of the garment, as he always gave: “The color, though, I’m not loving. No offense, Nat, but army green isn’t your color…or anybody’s color. Except for soldiers. Also, the studs look tacky.”

           “And you look fat,” repeated the bitch whose job it was to dress Mason Grey on a daily basis.

           “Thanks, Beth,” I shot her a fake smile.

           “It’s Bethany,” the stylist corrected in her prissy English accent. I rolled my eyes, knowing that she was just jealous that I was naturally pretty, and that in order for her to achieve a forged “prettiness,” she had to die her hair pastel pink (as it currently was) and wear globs of eyeliner. Besides, even if she did get paid to play dress up with the biggest pop star on the planet, that didn’t mean that she knew shit about women’s clothes.

           Mason was a dude. Bethany was not a dude. While Mason may have always looked photo-shoot-ready, that didn’t necessarily mean that the person who dressed him did. Bethany’s current attire could definitely serve as an example as to why I was convinced she couldn’t dress herself. She was wearing a black and white horizontally striped button-down (I didn’t even know that those existed), an ombré maxi skirt ranging from hues of blue to yellow to pink, and a pair of white rain boots. It was not raining outside. Bangles covered her wrists, long hoops hung from her ears, and a dragon pendant was secured around her neck. Personally, I thought she looked like a boho hobo. But I was just a model—what did I know?

           “So this dress is a no?” I sighed in defeat, looking at my reflection once more. Honestly, it wasn’t that ugly. A little skanky, yes. But it wasn’t horrible.

           “Yeah,” Mason determined in finality. “Try the black one on now!”

           “And you, sir, need to go try on that new tux,” Bethany said, shoving the boy into the dressing room opposite mine.

           “But I already have, like, twenty tuxes!” Mason groused, forlornly retreating into the miniature room.

           “You can never have enough clothes,” Bethany scolded.

           “Preach it!” I laughed, trying my best to get along with the Brit. She just shot me a bored glare, and I got the hint, going back to my changing room.

           I stared at the gorgeous dress of black that was dangling on a single hanger, and sighed. It was so beautiful. The top was cut low (like, my-boobs-would-be-half-out low), and it was sleeveless. There was a thick band around the waist that then dropped into the skater-esc skirt. The main part of the skirt stopped right above my mid-thigh, and then there was a section of sturdy tulle that was broken up in the middle by the focal fabric from the rest of the dress. It was Donna Karan. And I wanted it.

           So, I shimmied out of my puke green body-con number, and handled the black dress like I was playing football with a butterfly and trying not to kill it. Warily, I slipped on the new dress, and figured it was a good sign that even I was breathless as I stared into the small mirror that didn’t do the dress justice. With a confident smile gracing my face, I exited the room, and went out into the hall, eagerly awaiting Mason’s reaction. Bethany’s eyes glazed over my body, and a tiny but evident look of approval flitted into her face.