Your Company

1

"I GOT THE JOB!" I screamed happily.

I jumped around my room while singing "I'm a model, a model..." with my hands waving around the air. After all my hard work of getting that dream body, and a clear and shiny face, the Indian hair-care routines and yoga were SO worth it.

I sit back down on the desk, a wide grin spread on my face. I read the letter a second time:

Dear Ivory White,

We welcome you. Congratulations, you are now one of Artemis's models.

Before you take on the job as Artemis's model, you'll need to:

1.) Arrive in NY (Plane ticket will be financially covered.)
2.) Find your way to our HQ
3.) Locate Ms.Westwood (Our loyal tailor) and speak with her
4.) Once you receive Ms.Westwood's instructions, complete the assigned task(s)
5.) Wait for gigs, and you're now (a complete) model for Serena

*Regarding the * in your application, you had said you wanted to leave as soon as you got the exception if there was an available plane to New York. 
There will be a plane to NY tomorrow. (LINK TO TICKET IS IN OTHER EMAIL)
Also noting the need for Financial Aid, everything will be covered by our expenses in food, home, and 5% of the bills. 

We wish you the best, and hopefully will see you in our HQ;

The Artemis Family

I have been praying for this moment- every second, minute, and hour of EVERY single day. I have gone to church two times a week, praying to God that I would get my dream job.

And I did.

I scream again, jumping up and down and doing my happy dance (Now that I look back at it, what the fuck was I doing? Who cares. I'm a damn model.).

The average model in NYC (in the BIG companies) makes $46 /hour. Sure, it may not seem much, but I can get out of this stupid place, with my stupid father and house. I could escape this place.

This place.

I don't call it home. Never. I don't even know what 'home' is. The word 'home' doesn't fit in the household I reside in. It's a bungalow; a shabby, old, dirty bungalow. Outside the yard are trash bins that are knocked over, litter all over, and plants and grass that are either dead or yellow and reek of cigarettes, alcohol, and pure shit.
My room looks like the opposite since I clean it up, but it's not a room. It's probably the size of a closet. I only have a bed, desk, chair and drawer. With a light, that doesn't even properly work.

I get off my bed, take out my luggage under my bed, and open it. I rush to my drawer, put my clothes on one side of the luggage, and then put the rest of my belongings on the other. I grab my backpack and stuff my laptop, phone, wallet, cosmetics, and diary- filled with my hopes and dreams. Which (obviously) came true.

I decided to become a model... because looks were the only thing I was ever useful for. I couldn't afford university or college and barely survived high school. I tried my best to save up until my stupid father found my piggy bank. And used it on cigarettes and alcohol. Almost $7000 worth.

That would've been enough for a proper job.

I zip my luggage and backpack, close the lights, and get in bed. Tomorrow, I'll be living in New York City.

A place that I could call home.