Nightlife ✓

02 | masquerade

MOM WAS THE ONE WHO made me a model.

My mom had volunteered me to model for a designer friend of hers when I was fourteen, back in my hometown of New York City. It seemed the norm to have random fashion designer friends, architect friends, CEO friends. Since that first runway show seven years ago, I had only gained in fame.

Krista Ming (one had to say both the first and last name) now had over a million followers on Instagram. She was optimistic, sassy, and confident. Her job comprised photoshoots, promoting Topaz and amassing paid partnerships from social media. In return, I received makeup, jewelry and an excessive supply of hair vitamin gummy bears—which I didn't even use.

Online, and at Topaz, people tended to get the wrong idea about me. I rarely corrected them, because customers didn't like to be corrected. They thought I was Krista Ming, the glamorous model. The party girl. The #lifegoals. Superficially, they were correct.

But I was really Kris, the couch potato.

Kris the couch potato was a twenty-one-year-old, Pre-Medical senior at Halston University. Like modelling, I had chosen my career path after sound advice from Mom. She wanted a stable, lucrative, and spiritually-rewarding job for her youngest daughter. Like her two oldest children had. I agreed that medicine could be all those things, but sometimes I suspected more for her than for me.

In what little spare time I got away from readings, labs, assignments, and preparing med school applications, I enjoyed watching any franchise with a Byronic antagonist-turned-protagonist and watering Rudy (my succulent). I worked casually as a writer for Natural Affairs—a small online science magazine. It was a perfect job that didn't require me to leave my bed.

On top of the two facets of my personality, I also oscillated between two extremes of the looks spectrum.

I was always either in sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, with my long hair coiled into a bun that exposed the lumpiness of my scalp, glasses pushed high on my nose.

Or I was in miniskirts and stilettos, which I could only endure wearing because doing ballet till I was sixteen had helped prepare me for throbbing pain in my feet, looking like—dare I say it—an ABG.

"But I am not an ABG!" I protested, crossing my arms at Vivian.

Riley, Viv and I found an empty table in the dining hall and sat down, sliding our meal trays onto the white surface.

Riley Salesi was my roommate in our residence hall. We'd met taking an interpretive dance elective in freshman year (renowned for being an easy A). She had a natural deep tan that people paid good money to achieve, thick curly black hair and brown-framed glasses that she only took off to go clubbing. Wholesome, gentle and understanding, she was the best roommate I could have imagined.

Vivian Sok was a short, slim, yoga-practicing Cambodian that went out every student night and weekend. Her black hair was cut in a lob nearly as sharp as her tongue. In freshman year, we had kept being thrown together in our mutual Pre-Med classes, eventually becoming close friends. Every time she appeared on my Instagram story, I saw through the business analytics that thousands of my followers clicked the link to her bio. She also lived on Riley's and my floor, just three doors down.

The three of us landed in different accommodation buildings all throughout freshman, sophomore, and half of junior year. Until we got lucky last semester. Senior year began with a good omen; we returned to the newly-minted hall that housed some of my best memories, with my best friends.

"You, Viv, are an ABG," I countered, taking a blissful bite of lasagna.

"I know!" she said happily. "But since we're so similar, you could easily become one. You just need to get lash extensions and vape."