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01 | chance
Screaming. Beeping. Clicking. The guards spread their arms to stop the advancing barrage. Screaming. Beeping. Clicking. Repeat.
I flip my hair out of my eyes and readjust: tucking my hands in my pockets, bending a knee, popping a hip out, tilting my head. I smile, I make a poker-face, I part my lips slightly, I pucker.
The lights flash. To an amateur, the brightness is blinding. To someone like me, who's been doing this for two years now, the lights don't affect me.
The heat from the lighting brings a sheen of sweat to my forehead, and the stylist rushes toward me to fix it. She smooths the collar of my shirt and tugs on my jeans. After brushing my hair, spraying down any flyaways, she disappears behind the camera and lights and equipment.
"Three more, Chance, three more," Giovanni calls, holding up three fingers.
With each new pose, the camera flashes at least ten more times. Three more poses turn into thirty more photos.
A final flare of light and click of the camera, and Giovanni announces, "And that's a wrap! Thank you all so much."
While the staff, including me, applauds, the onlooking crowd erupts into the loudest screams yet. However, the guards push them back and tell them it's time to leave.
The annual special event is a hit.
Smirking, I shoot the adoring crowds a wink and a wave. I swear a few of them cry. I chuckle and shake my head. I take the water bottle the stylist offers and chug it halfway empty.
Despite the seeming popularity of Giovanni's Studio, the staff totals four people: Giovanni, the owner and the photographer; Emmy, the stylist who does it all—from the makeup to the outfits to manning the equipment that Giovanni can't get to; the receptionist; and me, Chance Olson, the model.
The four of us clean up, taking care of the equipment while Giovanni handles the cameras. We check the photos from this session, assenting that this one turned out better than the one before. We thank the crowds for attending the special event at Giovanni's Studio, and the guards usher them from the building.
The building cleared out now, I duck into the dressing room, disrobing. The outfit for this shoot matches my usual wear: a button-up and jeans. I shove my feet into my oldest pair of Converse, which barely fit from my last growth spurt. Mom insists on buying me a new pair, but these have sentimental value. (Mom always rolls her eyes at what I consider sentimental. Like a pair of shoes and a rubber band.)
As the stylist enters the dressing room after me, she says, "Good job today, Chance."
