Model



My best friend thinks she's pregnant.

Personally, I think Melissa's wrong, but it's not my body. Teen pregnancy is so melodramatic: lonely, living off the streets and welfare, dragging your baby from city to city and everywhere but on your acid trips. No, fourteen-year-olds don't get pregnant anywhere except in the newspaper and on TV. I mean, what would Aunt Sheila say?

"Oh, drama," she'd sigh, and flip her curly hair.

So why am I so worried about this? Because worry is contagious, I guess. Melissa is having a heart attack about it:

"What should I do, Jaime? Should I ask my mother? Will she hate me?"

Or worse: "What about my modeling career?"

And then she'll cry, and the contagion has spread.

Now, here's the truth about Melissa's modeling career--she doesn't have one, and though I love her dearly, I doubt she ever will. And that's not to say she's not beautiful; who am I to talk? It's her attitude that's the problem. She expects life on a silver platter with oysters and an Amex, and her god-awful parents hate the very idea of her doing anything so superficial and are working with all their authoritative might to stop that career before it begins. I remember discussing this with her over the summer in depth:

"I want to be a model," she said.

"Okay. But why?"

"Because I want to be beautiful!"

"Don't you think there's more to life than that?" Even to me it sounded half-baked. I knew Melissa wouldn't go for it.

"Who are you, Gandhi? Give me a break! I want to be a model. Who says there even has to be a reason? The point is I need your help becau...