Читать книгу Almost 5'4" - Isobella Jade - Страница 19

Danny hardly ever came to see me in the city. Almost every time he did he informed me proudly that he hated New York.

In Brooklyn Heights I lived in the St George Hotel. I had a roommate and very little privacy, but I had stability, something at the time I took for granted. And although it should have been comforting, it never crossed my mind it could be otherwise. I had no rent to worry about, no bills to pay. The St George was built in the early 1900s and had been converted into a student dorm. The rooms were small and the bathtub made peculiar noises that made me nervous but it was a pretty cool place to live. I had a doorman, and the floor meetings with the residential student adviser weren’t mandatory. In short, I was free to do what I liked, with only classes to disrupt my shoots. I was winging it. No one really knew about these meetings with photographers. I didn’t tell my roommate even though she made every effort to be friendly. She left notes on the bathroom mirror or the door saying things like, ‘You’re the best roommate ever!’ and ‘I hope you have a great day today!’ She was pretty, Dominican, and had a boyfriend down the hall who was over constantly.

They were both studying architecture, and groups of other students would pile into our tiny room, sit for hours smoking pot and laughing too loud, playing ass-shaking Latin reggatone. I didn’t say hello or join in. I thought they were annoying freshmen.

I had only one real friend in New York City, and I could hardly pronounce her name. She was in my advertising class and lived down the hall in the dorms. She was tiny, slender, a little underweight, and had tan skin. We looked almost like sisters.

When she said, ‘My name is Maryam,’ I thought she said, ‘Mary,’ but then she corrected me. ‘No, it’s Maryam.’ I had never heard of that name before. I thought it was weird, but we would meet up at Wendy’s in between classes. Maryam seemed cool enough to tell about my modeling. She approved and admired me. She wouldn’t judge me like others had. I told her she was pretty enough to model too but she never tried it. Unlike me, she was shy about her body.

Just like in Syracuse, I spent my free time stuck to the Internet, working on my mini-site and adding photos every week. I wanted my ass to be voted as the number one pick by the photographers I worked with on Onemodelplace.com. I wanted to be one of their favorites.

In the meantime, my classes were at Columbus Circle, so dorming in Brooklyn meant a good twenty-minute commute. Because of the 9/11 attacks, the trains were all fucked up and usually I was late for every class, but mostly it was because I was planning, preparing, or returning from a shoot and I didn’t care about being on time.

That subway ride was where I really saw New York. Mistakenly, I thought New York would show me the classiest, most dignified and well-dressed people. Yet I never saw a Chanel or Gucci outfit on the subway. Those were names I was just beginning to learn about. In Syracuse I shopped at Deb and JCPenney. I didn’t know about Louis Vuitton until I picked up a Vogue for the first time to get some fashion tips. I also picked up a Stuff magazine and a Playboy for sexier modeling ideas and to compare myself to the models.

School was a drag and a distraction from my newfound sense of purpose. I couldn’t get excited about listening to some professor tell me about math, marketing, or English without thinking, they’re full of shit. With the city buzzing four flights below me, I always tried to sit by the window for inspiration. It was hard to stay still when so much was going on around me. Most of my classes were in the afternoon so it should have been an easy schedule but it was getting more difficult as time went on.