Walking down the catwalk was exhilerating each time I entered into the sea of lights and blinding flashes from the cameras. I was tall, and I was different than other girls in this industry. Aren't we all supposed to be tall to be super models? Yes, but rarely do you find a girl in her late teens hitting six foot five. I've learned to embrace my giraffe-like height, maybe because I always hated it growing up and always wanted to find a man taller than me to marry, but I've lost all hope on that. And I'm in this dog-eat-dog world now, so what's the chance of me finding true love when the paparazzi are out to destroy any kind of relationship I'll try and have? Slim to none. So, that's why I focus mainly on landing as many jobs as I can in this business, because once you get old, your out. I've been doing this for a year now, since I've graduated high school at the age of seventeen. Now that I'm eighteen, I'm loving it all the more, and I'm about to make an even bigger name for myself. Once Fashion Week begins, I'll be with Diane von Furstenberg and her new campaign. Everyone's excited for it, and no one knows whose the It girl that will grace the headlines, bilboards, ads, and magazines for her. She came to me about a month ago, and from then on it's been hush-hush to everyone but her closest team of designers and what not.
Shouts of "Alex!" and "Alexandra!" filled the elongated auditorium, and I couldn't help but sweep my smoldering gaze over each and every body occupying the room, whether they were the paparazzi at the end of the catwalk to the audience sitting, watching as I make my entrance for the first time that night. I didn't have a fangirl moment with the outfit I was wearing, but having the oppurtunity to show off my genetic accident, is amazing.
I reached the end of the catwalk, stopped, flashed a smile (when you aren't supposed to), and then sashayed back into my normal strut. All I heard was the decrescendo of claps as I walked backstage for my next outfit. I smiled at the thought of the crowd as putty in my hands, and so did the designer.
"Mi cielo! You were my little slice of heaven tonight! They loved you, you could've made a potatoe sack fashionable. That's how much they cared about my creation." Balenciaga praised me.
"Balenciaga, stop it! It was your creation they loved! Not me." I turned the praise onto his creation, and not on me. I honestly am uncomfortable with compliments, but I just accept them and move on when I can.
"No, no, no. Now, let's get you dressed! Your on in four minutes! Then finale with moi." He whisked away before I could say another word, and my two stylists quickly dressed and undressed me with a minute to spare. I speed walked to my spot in the line up, and before I knew it, I was walking down the catwalk hand in hand with Balenciaga for the finale.
I decided to send my limo home early, and the driver was thankful. I lived in New York City, so walking wasn't a big deal. I wasn't listening to my ipod, or on my phone, just enjoying the breezy warm air of the night. The stars weren't that visible from all the lights going on in this city, but you could tell the seasons are changing. And when the seasons change, so does my hair. It's rather weird. Like right now, since it's the beginning of fall, it's turning from amber brown to bleach blonde, so my roots are blonde while the ends are brown. It's ombre (idk how to put accents with my computer) styled, and I've never dyed it. In the winter it's completely platinum blonde, sometimes it's white, and then in the spring it's ombre styled but it goes brown roots with blonde ends, and then the summer is all brown. My eyes change colors too, from day time they are brown, and at night they are icy blue. (THIS WILL ALL MAKE SENSE AS THE STORY PROGRESSES)
I guess this makes me even more different than other girls?
Yeah.
Lost in thoughts about my freakiness, I didn't even notice someone was yelling behind me. It was a guy, he sounded like he was in a panic, so I moved closer to the buildings on my left so he could pass by. But he didn't. He just kept yelling "Cosima!" over and over again.
Cosima...that's a different name. I wonder who this Cosima is?
I felt a hand touch my shoulder, making me stop and jump a mile.
"Cosima, didn't you hear me calling your name?" The man asked, who couldn't be older than 20.
"What are you talking about? And get your hands off me!" He dropeed them upon request, and in that same second I noticed he was taller than me.
"Your Cosima." By the confused look I was giving this poor man, he realized then that I knew nothing of the crazy mumbo jumbo that was coming out of his mouth.
"Sorry, but you have the wrong girl." I turned and started to walk away, this time a little faster.
"You dream, you dream about castles and weaponry. Am I wrong?" That stopped me dead in my tracks.
"How did you know?" I whispered, turning to look into his bright blue eyes.
"The place you dream of, is your home. Can we go get a drink? I can explain more." I was pensive to his request, I didn't even know his name!
"What's your name? And alright, but one drink." I didn't want to get wasted with this complete stranger and end up raped or knocked up. No thank you.
"My name is Devin, I work for your mother." We started to walk back the way I had come, going to the nearest low-key bar in the neighborhood.
"My mother is a real estate agent in Vermont. She doesn't have any employees."
"No, I mean I work for your real mother."
Okay! So it's....different. BUT there is more to come, and it will get interesting. Sorry it's not long, hopefully this story will have about thirty chapters, and each chapter give or take about 2-4 pages each.
